Festivities in the 22nd Century
by KnightFury
Summary: The first Christmas after One Wish. What can I say? I just had to. I hope that these are enjoyed; please R & R to let me know.
1. The 1st of December

**Monday 1st December 2104 - Christmas Lights in Trafalgar Square**

"Ready everyone? Count down from ten with me!" The actress at the podium shouts excitedly into her microphone as her hand hovers over the large red button that is set in its centre.

Naturally, the crowd eagerly does so; including Watson, John and Lestrade. The noise is almost deafening.

The countdown concluded, the button of the podium in the centre of Trafalgar Square is pressed and New London is instantly bathed (nay, flooded) with brightly-coloured lights. A gasp escapes me at the sight; it is like nothing that I have ever seen before.

"Stunning," Watson remarks close to my ear and I can only nod my agreement.

"This is what you missed last year," Lestrade informs me with a satisfied smile. "See what happens when you get all sulky and refuse to go out?"

I ignore her, for I was not merely sulking last year, and take in the sights and sounds all around me; the voices singing carols, the Christmas tree in the centre of the square, the sculptures made of metal, fibreglass and coloured lights. There was nothing like this in my day! Perhaps the decorations are a little over-the-top, but I am Victorian - my era quite possibly invented over-the-top.

"Well, I'm gonna go get myself a hot cocoa and a mince pie," Lestrade informs me. "D'you want anything?"

Mulled wine. Surely one of the vendors must have some on offer.

Lestrade grimaces. "Mulled wine? Zed Holmes! You and your alcohol!"

"I am not a drunkard," I grate at her through my teeth. "I never drink too much; it clouds one's judgement."

Watson announces that he would also like one, along with a hot meat pie.

"Mince pies don't have meat in 'em," Lestrade informs us. "The 'mince meat' is a mix of fruits and sweet spices. Want one?"

I am willing to try anything once and Watson is much the more adventurous than I where food is concerned.

While Lestrade purchases the pies, Watson and I buy our spiced wine and our friend the compudroid gets Lestrade's hot chocolate. We then regroup at a table beneath the enormous tree in the centre of the square. The pies are good, as is the heated wine, and I relax completely in the company of my friends. There is a small band playing now, in company with the singers, and we all four listen appreciatively in silence.

It is John that decides when it is time to go home. The temperature is dropping as it only can in December and he can see that we are becoming chilled.

I am not sure whether I am glad to be leaving the cold square or sorry. There is an atmosphere there like nothing that I have experienced before.


	2. The 2nd of December

**Tuesday 2nd December 2104 - Mistakes**

This is not the most impressive thing that I have ever done. I am sure that I have done much worse in my previous lifetime, but I know that this is the first time that I have acted so stupidly since I returned to life. I am not invincible and I should be old enough to know that by now. Had I kept that in mind, I would have requested back-up, as Lestrade calls it, and I would not have been forced to hide here alone in a freezing, draughty old warehouse, trying to keep still and quiet while I attempt to throw together a plan of action.

I did not realise how large this gang is; I have underestimated them shamefully. I cannot possibly take them all on and if I do not move soon I am going to become dangerously chilled. How I wish that I had told someone where I was going. Dash my pride! I am still quite new to this wretched era and I should have buried my desire to work alone for a change and at least told Watson and John the compudroid what I was doing.

I am rapidly becoming colder, but the gang is in no hurry. I shiver violently and silence a sneeze. It is becoming increasingly difficult to stifle the things now and I know that I am likely to make my presence known soon. That, or I am going to lose consciousness; that might prove to be even more hazardous than the gang.

They are finally moving! I feel a wave of relief wash over me and prepare to scramble to my feet. I have to get out of here and quickly. I am aching with cold, can barely feel my hands and my head, nose and throat burn with breathing the cold air. Just as I am getting to my feet, the lights are extinguished and I am plunged into darkness. I move slowly, avoiding the crates, boxes and barrels that clutter the majority of the floor-space with care, as I make for the door as noiselessly as I can manage. They are all still chatting, so they should not hear me unless they should fall silent without warning. All the same, it is wise to exercise caution when one is a spy in an enemy's domain; it is a shame that that did not occur to me sooner.

I have almost reached the door when it slams shut, plunging me into darkness. A key is turned in the lock. A lock that can only be accessed from the outside. Bravo Holmes! Now I truly am trapped. With nothing else to do, I pace in an effort to keep warm. It is a losing battle. I stifle another sneeze and rub at my arms. I wish that I had a communicator with me! For an intelligent man, I can be incredibly stupid.

I know not how long I can stay here. Moving is becoming difficult and I can feel sleep pulling at me. I am exhausted. Despite all my efforts to resist, I find myself curling into a ball upon the icy and damp concrete floor. This is it; I am going to die here, alone, while my friends have no way of knowing where I am.

I awake slightly when another sneeze escapes me; this one would be violent were I not so weak, a strong indication of my increasing fatigue. My heart flutters tiredly in my breast as the sternation depletes my reserves further still; I have felt like this before and I know that my life is ebbing away as my internal temperature sinks ever lower. Poor Watson. We have only just been reunited and now we are going to be separated again, for there is only so long that I can continue to fight. My timing could have been better.

A nudge to my stomach rouses me from my stupor and I feel a sudden urge to vomit. Nausea is not uncommon in cases of severe exposure and it is another indication that I am in danger. I use my arms to protect my abdomen and force my eyes open. A man is crouching in my field of vision, smiling at me in a manner that is far from reassuring. I might feel a thrill of fear if I had the ability to feel anything at all. My eyes are dimming and then they flutter closed.

"Mr. Holmes, you have to wake up," a familiar female voice tells me firmly. "They do not expect you to be able to move yourself and there are only two of them at the moment. Come on, you can do it. Quickly now."

That voice... I know that voice. If only I could place it! I open my eyes, but I can see no-one.

"Quickly Mr. Holmes! Before they realise that you are still alive. You must get away!"

I try to reply, but my throat has become much too dry. As I attempt to stand my vision dims and I realise that I shall have to crawl on my hands and knees.

There is a clatter behind me, followed by a curse. The woman's voice urges me to run and I do my utmost to obey. It is dark out, but I can see electric light reflecting in puddles outside the doorway, which is not obstructed. I drag myself toward it as fast as my failing strength will allow on my hands and knees.

I think it is slightly warmer out here in the drizzle, but I am so cold that I could be mistaken. I am feeling sick again, but to give in to my nausea now is bound to draw attention to myself; even I cannot vomit silently. I keep my movements slow in an effort to keep my nausea from worsening and tentatively make as much distance between myself and that gang as possible.

I have almost reached the road behind the warehouses when a light falls upon me, blinding me. I attempt to shield my eyes from the glare, but the dazzling light and resulting panic cause my stomach to lurch and I am forced to lean forward on my hands and knees to avoid ruining my clothes.

"Are you all right mate?" the voice behind the torch asks of me with concern. "Had too much to drink?"

I shudder and shake my head. I cannot give him a vocal answer, for my throat is all the more raw for the vomiting, but if I could show him my wallet he will at least know that I am not a drunkard. I reach for my pocket, but my hand is too numb to grasp anything. If only I could speak!

The stranger has his arms about me at my armpits, lifting me from off the cold and wet concrete.

I attempt to stand and then my world becomes darker still as my heart flutters again. I feel him lift me into his arms, hear him murmur something in a gentle, comforting manner and then I know no more.


	3. The 3rd of December

**Wednesday 3rd December 2104 - Where am I?**

I know not the time or date. I do not know where I am or what has happened to me. The first thing that I am aware of, when I am next aware of anything, is an overwhelming desire to find a lavatory. I force my eyes open and attempt to move. I discover that I am much too cold and intolerably weak; I almost collapse when I near a sitting position and my heart threatens to stop.

"Easy mate. Easy," a kindly stranger says gently as his hands stop me from rising. "It's OK. You're gonna be OK. I called your house and you've got someone coming for you. Doctor Watson and John."

The mention of Watson causes a wave of relief to wash over me and I almost permit him to lie me back down when I remember my reason for waking. "Lavatory."

"Oh. Uh... right..." he gazes at me awkwardly and then at the door. "Thing is, I don't think you should move. I got a doctor out to look at you while you were out of it and he said you was in shock."

But I must! I tense with a grimace. I know not what is wrong with me but I do instinctively know that I cannot wait for long; it seems that it is a miracle that I have maintained control of myself while I was unconscious.

"OK, don't panic," he says gently.

I am carried through to a small cloakroom. It is cooler than the room that I awoke in and I flinch as the cold makes my need all the more pressing.

"Sorry mate. We'll make this quick. You really need to be kept warm."

I would like to be given some privacy, but it is not to be. I am much too weak and bone weary.

When I am ready, I am returned to my sickroom, which I can now see is this kindly stranger's sitting room. I am made comfortable on his settee, am swathed in thick, heavy rugs and then I know no more.

I am suddenly aware of warmth upon my chest and abdomen. No, it is concentrated patches of heat.

"Keep the hot water bottles in place Doctor Watson. We need to raise his internal temperature."

"His hands and feet are like ice John!"

A hand takes mine. It is warm and comforting.

"I know. Release his hand Doctor. I know that it is difficult to resist warming his extremities, but doing so will only rob his core of valuable heat."

I sneeze feebly and attempt to open my eyes. I cannot.

"Bless you Holmes. Can you hear us? It is John and Doctor Watson."

Yes, I can hear them. I attempt to nod but I know not whether I succeed.

"Holmes, listen closely," Watson's calm, soothing voice instructs. "You are working yourself too hard; you need to rest for now. Your heart cannot take much more of this treatment."

I cease fighting to wake and simply content myself with listening to them.

"That is better," John remarks. "His pulse is steadier."

"Poor Holmes," Watson remarks. "He is probably frightened; he is used to being in perfect control of himself."

"You are safe Holmes," John informs me. "Once your core temperature has returned to a more normal level you should regain your strength. You shall wake then."

How long will that be?

"Do you think that we should try to get some liquids inside him?" Watson asks. "You said yourself that he is becoming dehydrated due to the diuretic effect that the cold has on the body."

Have I disgraced myself or can I simply not remember waking? I am not sure which would be the more disturbing.

"Now I know that he is listening!" John says. "Holmes, do please calm yourself. You have not made a mess; Doctor Watson and I have paid close attention to our task."

I do indeed relax again, though I do not find his words as comforting as he intends them to be.

"Holmes," Watson says gently, "you need to drink. I am going to sit you up and give you a tiny sip. Do not be alarmed; I shall not drown you."

Thank you old fellow.

I am carefully lifted into a sitting position and my friend of old then helps me to drink something. A hot blackcurrant cordial with extra sugar, I believe. It is difficult for me to swallow but Watson is a doctor; his skilled fingers manipulate my throat and ensure that the warming drink does not cause me to choke.

"He is still so cold," Watson remarks with concern as he lowers me back into a reclining position. "John, I am going to undress and lie with him; sharing body heat should be much more effective than those hot water bottles. Undress Holmes please; the less fabric to restrict the transferance of our bodies' heat the better."

"Well, yes, but... Is that wise? We are in a stranger's house!"

"For Heaven's sake John! What the deuce have you been reading? Or is it what you have been watching?" he snorts. "You used to be much too innocent to even think of such a thing."

"It is just that... there are some who think that you and Holmes..."

He snorts again. "He is cold and I am warm; that is my first and only concern. If there are some that wish to read too much into my actions, I am sure that they will do so regardless."

I do not believe that I have ever heard Watson sound so angry, indignant or disgusted. I might be amused in different circumstances.

"All right Holmes," I hear my companion say quietly. "I am going to press myself close to your back. I am afraid that if this works, you shall begin to shiver quite soon."

Yes, I know that. I feel Watson's almost nude body slip beneath me as John carefully adjusts my position on the settee. My companion feels hot in comparison with the leather-like fabric and I am glad of his presence. I hear him gasp when his skin makes contact with mine, the only indication of his displeasure at the manner in which I chill him, and then he gently pulls the covers closer before wrapping his arms snugly about my chest.

"Doctor, your arm is in the way," I hear John inform my friend. "I do still need to monitor his heart."

Watson quietly apologises and adjusts his hold, but his arms remain about me. I listen quietly as their voices slowly become nothing more than a gentle hum. The sound transforms into the buzzing of bees and I am suddenly in Sussex before I even realise that I have fully returned to slumber.

When I next awake, I am able to open my eyes. I ache with cold and fatigue and I am shaking like a leaf in a gale. Watson is still behind me, warming my back as he whispers words of comfort. I can barely hear him over the sound of my own teeth chattering within my head.

I am given more to drink and then John assists me in relieving myself, which is a dreadfully humiliating experience. Soon after, exhaustion takes me again.

At first, I am still aware of what is going on around me. I can hear John's scanners humming as he monitors my internal workings and I can also hear them discussing things, though I find it impossible to understand what they say.

I hear the voice that spoke to me last night and give a start as I finally place it. It is Mrs. Hudson! I attempt to understand her words or even to force myself into wakefulness, but I am unable to rouse myself.

"Calm down and get well Mr. Holmes," she chastises me gently. "You need your strength. Just do as the doctors tell you and you'll be back on your feet in no time."

I have no choice but to take her advice.

The next time that I am fully aware, Watson is properly dressed and sitting beside me while my hand rests within his reassuring grip. He smiles at me and I know that my crisis is over.

"You had us so very worried," he informs me. "First exposure with shock and then a fever; I was beginning to fear that you had contracted pneumonia."

I grimace and screw my eyes shut. My breath is hot and irritates my horribly dry nose and throat; I feel I have to both cough and sneeze and it is simply a question of which I shall do first.

"Are you thirsty?"

I nod and cough into the crook of my arm. "Terribly so. Ashoo!"

"Bless you. I have some honeyed water for you old fellow; can you sit up?"

Yes. I do so with surprising ease, considering all that I have been through, and he hands me a tumbler of the sweetened water.

"Thank you."

He smiles and rests his hand upon my free arm. I see his eyes glisten slightly as he turns his face away. "You are welcome."

"I am sorry," I whisper. "I shall not do this to you again."

He swallows awkwardly and nods.

"Where is John?"

My old friend sniffs. "You sent him away to assist Lestrade. You were able to tell us enough to enable her to locate the gang that you tracked down at the wharf and you insisted that he escort her-"

I almost choke on my drink in alarm. "They are not alone are they?"

Watson pats my arm. "No, but still you insisted. Besides, you know John; he wanted to see the criminals put away and he had to know that Lestrade was safe."

Good. I am glad that Lestrade has his support, whether it is needed or not. I finish my water and then permit my friend of old to make me comfortable once more. The more that I rest, the sooner I shall be well enough to go home. I have intruded upon this kindly stranger's hospitality quite long enough.


	4. The 4th of December

**Thursday 4th December 2104 - Missing**

"Mr. Holmes?" a nervous little voice enquires carefully.

I look up from my e-book to find a young lady that can be no older than ten years of age standing before me. I stifle a yawn and clear my throat as I set aside my e-reader and glance at the clock. Almost ten. Watson and John both retired an hour ago, for they were both quite done up after tending to me for the most part of four and twenty hours.

"Hello. What is your name young miss?"

She wrings her hands and lowers her gaze to them nervously. "My name is Sandy."

"The hour is rather late for a young lady like yourself to be out alone I believe Sandy," I remark as I indicate for her to sit. "Where are your parents?"

She looks embarrassed and averts her gaze. "They don't know I'm here."

I tut and shake my head. "You should not have sneaked out. All the same, you are here now and you clearly are in some distress to have come to me against their wishes. What can I do for you my dear?"

She sniffs and swallows awkwardly, giving me the impression that she is doing her utmost to keep from crying. John and Watson, were either of them still up, would offer her a drink, but Watson is in bed and making a pot of tea now would mean running the tap (the old plumbing is frightfully noisy) and most likely disturbing his slumber.

"Our cat went missing a week ago," she explains carefully. "She never goes out Mr. Holmes, she's a house cat, but she went out one day and vanished."

I snort with impatience. "I am far too busy to run about London looking for stray cats. I am sorry, but I have rather more important things to do."

She stands slowly. "Thank you for your time Mr. Holmes. I guess I should go home, if you won't do anything. The police wouldn't either."

I am about to apologise again when she turns to give me an imperious look, despite her tearful eyes. "Suki means the world to me and my sister," she says with a slight tremor in her voice. "It's Christmas soon; how're we meant to enjoy ourselves with a part of our family missing? And if you don't care, who will?"

I feel a lump come to my own throat and gesture for the girl to resume her seat. It would appear that being separated from Watson for so long has softened me more than I had realised.

"Could you send me some photograghs of Suki?" I ask of her against my better judgement.

She beams at me. "I knew you'd help!"

I hold up a hand. "Sandy, I can only promise to keep my eyes open. I may not find your cat. You must keep in mind that the city is a dangerous place; especially for a small animal that is not in the habit of wandering far from home."

She does shed some tears at this point. "You think she's dead, don't you?"

"It is possible," I admit gently. "But not the only possibility; I simply need for you to be realistic. I am not a magician."

She nods and dries her eyes bravely. She then shows me the photograghs of her cat, which are abundant on her Internet blog. Well, I can pass the address of her blog on to the Irregulars, along with the details that Sandy gives me, and ask them to look out for her cat as well. What more can I do?

I sincerely hope that Suki is somehow reunited with her family for Christmas. Sandy is quite right; nobody should be separated from their loved ones at this time of year.


	5. The 5th of December

**Friday 5th December 2104 - On This Day in 2005, Civil Partnership became legal in the UK.**

Watson and I are walking arm in arm through the streets of New London. It has been raining, though the weary sun is shining now, bathing the pavement beneath our boots with a yellow-orange light that turns the puddles to liquid gold.

We are both beginning to feel the chill as the temperature drops with the onset of evening, but the walk is a pleasant one and so I continue to guide my companion ever onward. Even I know not where exactly we are going, though I do know where we are and how best to get back to Baker Street. My sense of direction has not been altered by the passage of time.

Watson brings me to a halt beside a little church. There is music coming from within and a gathering of people waiting just outside the door. Why he has chosen to pause I could not say, but I am not about to drag him on if he wishes to rest a moment.

The married couple exit the church and all at once the world stops turning. The married couple are both men! My mind begins a frenzied whirl as I attempt to make sense of what I am witnessing. In my day, the priest would be committing a very serious felony, to say nothing of the two young men, and I simply cannot understand.

I feel Watson sag against me and pull myself together. I do not feel entirely well myself, but it would never do for us both to faint away in the street. I hastily support my companion and maneuver him to the crumbling wall that surrounds the churchyard.

"Are you all right?" I ask of my friend with concern. I have only ever seen him faint once and it frightened me then as it frightens me even now. I run a trembling hand across his brow before realising that my hands are too cold to accurately gauge his temperature.

Watson nods and draws a steadying breath, followed by another, as he leans in an almost drunken manner upon the wall. "It was just a shock. What about you?"

I nod and give him a quick smile. "I am all right. Are you ready to go home?"

"Yes. I think that we have seen quite enough of New London for one day."

As we turn our steps toward home, I continue to think about how times have changed. How many laws have been relaxed or withdrawn since my day? I still have more to learn than I first realised.

I feel my friend squeeze my arm. "Are you all right?"

No I am not, but I nod all the same. Watson does not need to know how unsettled I feel or why. In any case, the fellow is shaking beside me in a manner that cannot entirely be blamed on the cold. When we reach the house, I believe that two good brandies are in order.


	6. The 6th of December

**Saturday 6th December 2104 - Found**

"Holmes!" John beams at me as I step inside the house and then quickly helps me out of my wet outer garments. He is at once all concern. "You are cold. My news can wait until after you have had a warming drink and a hot bath. No, do not protest; I do not want you to catch a chill. I am sure that you would not wish to give such a thing to Doctor Watson either."

Indeed not. It was because I did not want to risk Watson's health that I insisted that he stay behind while Lestrade and I tackled a trivial case. It was concluded quickly but required a great deal of time spent out in the elements, just as I knew that it would.

"Holmes?" Watson calls as I drag myself up our stairs. "Is that you?"

"Give me a moment," I call back to him, but the fellow is already stepping out onto the landing.

"You look dreadful!"

Thank you Watson. "I am cold. I spent nearly all the time that I was out subjected to the elements. I would not mind had the case not been such a common-place affair."

"Poor Holmes!" he says with sympathy. "Get out of those wet clothes while I draw you a bath old fellow."

This time I do thank him. Good old Watson!

I have soon bathed and dried myself, dressed in warm clothes, am wrapped in a heavy rug for good measure and am drinking a hot lemon and honey drink before a roaring fire. It is good to be home and to be cared for after such a miserable day's work.

"Do you remember requesting of me to ask all the animal shelters in New London whether they have found a grey cat with white socks, a white bib and blue eyes?" John asks of me once he feels that I have recovered enough. "You did say that it was important."

I nod and sniff. "Indeed I do. Have you had any luck?" Their expressions tell me that they have but I patiently wait for them to tell me so.

"There is a cat fitting the description at Battersea Dogs' Home," Watson informs me excitedly.

John frowns at him and then continues. "It has been ill with 'cat flu' and is not well enough to be put up for re-homing yet. That is why I could not find it on their website."

"Wahey! Thank you. You have quite probably just made two young children terribly happy. Let me telephone the dogs' home now and see that the cat is reserved until her family are able to identify and claim her."

They both stare at me in open-mouthed shock and Watson only just remembers to set down his tea cup before he pours its contents into his lap.

"Holmes, are you saying that you have had us working a lost cat case?" my companion of old asks of me.

I nod and gratefully sip my drink. "The girl that brought the case to me impressed me to the point where I could simply not refuse her. She loves the animal so much that she cared not a jot about what might happen to her should she sneak out after dark; all that mattered was that a member of her family was missing and that all would not be well until the family was reunited."

"You have changed old chap," Watson informs me with a small smile. "You would not have taken such a case in our own era."

I shrug. "It is the time of year when we all wish to spend time with our family and friends. I know only too well how miserable this season is when one is separated from those that are dear to one."

He touches my arm.

"I seem to recall your mentioning family last year," John says with a frown. "I did not know that you and Mycroft were so very close."

"We were in our own way," I respond. Watson and I were closer still though; he and Mrs. Hudson were more of a family to me than my own family was, on the whole. My parents were not the most nurturing when we were boys nor overly supportive while we were adults. Our many aunts, uncles and cousins were not much better on the whole; Mycroft was the only member of my family that would ever welcome my company (in his own way). The other exception was my grandmother on my mother's side but, as she had lived in France, I had not seen as much of her as I would have liked before she passed away.

Watson squeezes my arm gently and I smile and pat his hand in return.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Very much so," I assure him. "I was only cold and feeling a little put out. I do wish that Lestrade would not involve me in trivial cases."

He smirks to himself and I know that he is thinking that there was a time when I would not have allowed myself to become engaged on a missing cat case. Well, I have explained my reasons. He and John can think what they like.

I finish my drink and then contact Battersea Dogs' Home. I leave a false name (just in case. I hardly want Beth to find out and think that I have 'turned soft' in my old age!) and my phone number, trying not to feel too excited. There could be any number of cats fitting Suki's description running about New London.

All that I can do is to hope.


	7. The 7th of December

**Sunday the 7th December 2104 - Christmas Dinner Party**

I dislike parties. My sensitive ears ache and ring with the loud music, raised voices and raucous laughter. I also feel far from welcome here; even those Yarders that would usually talk to me are rather too busy chatting away with the colleagues that they are naturally drawn to. The New Scotland Yarders are modern men and women; while Lestrade has a tendency to swear and curse, she is not overly crude. The same can hardly be said for all of her colleages. As a Victorian gentleman, I am not comfortable with dirty jokes and similar. If I thought that it was difficult to fit in with my peers in my own era, I find it all the worse now. I am glad that I have Lestrade, John and Watson here with me.

Watson, being a soldier, is a little more prepared. He has had a drink or two and now he is laughing and joking with the least polite group. He would seem to take 'toilet humour' (ugh!) in his stride and he is not averse to scandalous subjects. Even he is shocked when some of the women present join in, however, and then he hastily excuses himself from the conversation, his face red with embarrassment, and rejoins me.

"Men and women are equal in this era Watson," I chastise him quietly. "It really should come as no surprise that women would feel compelled to prove that they can be just as rude, disreputable and obnoxious as men."

"Is that what you think of me?" he asks, flushing with anger.

Only when he behaves like that. "I was not referring to your conduct old chap. Some of the men with whom you were talking were on what could only be described as their 'best behaviour'; they are worse than that at the Yard."

I watch him calm himself and then he nods and apologises. "I believe I may have partaken of a glass of whisky too many."

Only the one? I pat his shoulder; I can hardly comment on his drinking, as I have consumed rather a lot myself in the hope of rallying my frayed nerves. "Quite all right old fellow. I fear that I may have been a little careless myself; perhaps we should keep to fruit juices and water until dinner is served."

He agrees quietly and I change the subject.

Dinner is uncomfortable. I am feeling sick; not due to the alcohol so much as the noise and my nerves. I dislike crowded rooms and detest parties, for I am all too aware of all that is taking place around me. I also feel as if everyone is staring at me. I have very few friends here.

Grayson is terribly rude, alternating between glaring, growling and scoffing at me, and many of his subordinates are even worse. At least Watson would appear to have failed to notice the worst of it, for he seems to believe that it is all in good fun. He is contentedly eating his first course and chatting with Smyth as if he has not a care in the world.

Lestrade touches my arm suddenly and leans in close. "Are you OK?" she whispers into my ear. "You don't look all that good Sherlock."

I smile at her and push away my untouched soup. "Yes thank you."

"Not hungry?"

"No."

She squeezes my arm. "D'you want some water?"

She knows. I close my eyes and give a single, gentle nod.

"I did tell you to go easy on the booze. How much did you have?"

"It's not the drink."

She gazes at me searchingly. "If you're not well, I'll get John to take you home."

I squeeze her hand to keep her from standing. "I am not ill. I simply... I feel out of place; I do not belong here."

"And that's making you sick to your stomach?" she asks incredulously. "Zed Holmes! I didn't know you got nervous like that. I wouldn't have insisted that you came here tonight if you'd said."

I shrug and look away.

"I'll get you a glass of water. Anything else I can do?"

I shake my head with a grimace and wave her away. I am not going to be sick; I have felt like this many times before and so I know that I shall be all right as long as I eat nothing.

"Have you proposed to her yet?" McGregor asks of me with a smirk, leaning across the table so that he does not have to raise his voice.

Insolent blackguard! I have never much liked this repulsive fellow; there is something sly in his manner and his leer is positively reptilian. "I beg your pardon?"

"You've been courting her for months, haven't you laddie?"

I gape at him. Courting Beth Lestrade? Do I really give him that impression?

"Ah, come on now! We've all seen you both smiling at each other and whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears. When's the happy day?"

I narrow my eyes at him while Grayson laughs with his subordinates. I then smile. "Lestrade and I are very good friends, but we could never be more than that; I could not imagine her settling down and starting a family, could you? No, her place is out there," I gesture toward a window with an idle flick of my hand, "chasing down lawbreakers. As is mine."

He smirks and nudges the chap beside him, who giggles drunkenly.

"So you just get together when you need a bit o' action, eh?"

I suspect that chasing criminals is not the 'action' that he is alluding to. I am quite sure, judging by their expressions alone, that I do not wish for them to clarify. I say nothing. I only hope that Lestrade, who is talking with a colleague at the next table, is too far away to hear.

"You've gone 'n' upset him now Richardson," McGregor chides his friend, his horrid leer widening. "Mr. Holmes isn't like that at all. Besides," he adds slyly, "he's got Watson back now."

Is he implying that I...? That Watson and I would have...? I think I am about to be sick! No. No, no; I just have to think about something else. I begin to take in as many details as possible in the hope of distracting myself; the shock of that scene outside the church two days ago is much too fresh in my mind.

"No answer for that then?" McGregor asks, raising an eyebrow at me. "So the rumours are true, then?"

Watson turns from chatting with Inspector Smyth. "What rumours?"

Ah, so my Boswell has been paying attention. There is an element of danger in the manner in which he is now glaring at the two imbeciles across the table from us and I cannot help but feel glad that he is beside me.

Before another word can be spoken, Lestrade is standing between the two men brandishing a pitcher of water. "Shut the zed up, both o' you," she growls at them. "You say one more word to Holmes 'n' Watson and you'll wish you hadn't. Got it? Just eat your dinner and try to resemble civilised men for once."

Bravo Lestrade! I keep myself from smiling at her and lean back in my chair.

"Here," Beth smiles brightly at me as she pours some water into my empty glass and resumes her seat at my side. "Don't mind Richardson and McGregor; they've got a real childish sense o' humour and they don't know when to stop."

Now I do smile. I cannot help but be amused. I take a sip of the water; it is cool and refreshing. "Thank you."

"Feel better?"

I am indeed. I simply give her another grateful smile.

"Good."

Watson frowns at me. "Are you all right?"

I nod and again lean back in my chair. "Thirsty."

"Yes, you have had too much to drink," he admonishes quietly, wagging a finger. "You rarely have more than one brandy or whisky; you are not used to such volumes of drink."

I very much doubt that he is either. Even when he used to drink as a means of relieving the pain of his old wounds (most likely thinking that I would not notice), he was not in the habit of over-indulging. He has drank even less since his revival, as he no longer has his old wounds to trouble him.

Lestrade pats my arm and gives me a reassuring smile. "Try to eat some of your main course when it comes. It'll help."

No it will not. I remember the last occasion that I felt like this and was foolish enough to eat. I had not wished to let Watson know what was wrong and so I had simply told him that I could not afford to waste energy digesting, so as to avoid having to admit that my nerves were in shreds and that I was feeling horribly sick as a result. He had insisted that I at least have a cup of tea and slice of toast, resulting in my causing the fellow unnecessary concern after a long and uncomfortable cab ride. Had it not been for my iron will, I have no doubt that we would have been forced to pay the driver double to compensate for the inconvenience of having to clean his cab's interior, for I had been feeling dreadful from the moment of the horse's first step.

"Do not force him," Watson advises her as he watches me with concern. "Holmes will eat when he is hungry and not before."

I excuse myself and go to find John, who is standing beside the deserted bar somewhat forlornly.

"I do not think that you should have any more drink," he warns me quietly. "There are signs that you have had enough."

I do not explain. I am not sure how I should. Instead, I lean upon him and make as many observations and deductions as I can in rapid succession.

"All right Holmes," he interrupts at length. "All right, I understand; you are not impaired by the drink. All the same, you should have no more."

That was not what I was trying to tell him, but at least it would appear that he is not aware of my nausea. I shrug and address him with a lightning-quick smile. "You know best Doctor."

He chuckles quietly. "Have you eaten your fill?"

"I have indeed, but Watson is enjoying his meal."

He frowns at me. "But you did not."

I lower my gaze.

"You are not going to start going without food I hope. That is not healthy Holmes."

"Can we please discuss this later?"

He frowns at me but nods. "Very well. Would you allow me to find you something to eat when we go home?"

I should be all right once we are away from these people. I am not even sure why I am so nervous! The last time that I felt like this, it was because I was beginning to doubt myself and my abilities; I was working a case against Inspector G. Lestrade simply because I believed in my client's innocence and yet every shred of evidence was against him. I had feared that my faculties were failing me.

"Are you all right old boy?" John asks, dragging me back to the present. "Your hands are cold and you are shivering. Are you unwell?"

"I believe I need some air. Would you excuse me?"

He frowns anew. "I shall accompany you. You look quite dreadfull."

I feel quite dreadful, but I say nothing. Once we are outside, the fresh, sharp air eases the churning of my stomach somewhat and I relax.

"All right?" my friend asks of me with concern.

"Yes. Thank you John. I did need some air."

He wraps an arm about me. "All the same, you should not remain out here for too long; you already seem to be ailing."

"I am all right," I assure him quickly. "I simply... I am uncomfortable."

"The gentlemen's facilities are..."

"No! No, not like that. Lestrade's colleagues... I feel as if they are waiting for me to make a fool of myself. They have been watching me like a mob of vultures all evening. I... I know not... I am not accustomed to such animosity from colleagues."

He squeezes my arm. "I could take you home."

"I would not like to abandon Watson and he is enjoying himself."

John squeezes my arm. "Then we shall go and sit at the bar or something. Come Holmes, back inside; if you have had no nourishment it will be quite easy for you to catch a chill out here."

I permit him to lead me back inside without a word. I am glad that I insisted that the fellow accompany us tonight. I remain at his side until Watson joins us.

"I think we should go home," he says. "Lestrade has had her fill of these people and so have I. Why Grayson seated us with McGregor and his rabble I shall never understand."

Entertainment purposes, I would imagine. I say nothing.

"I agree Doctor Watson," John says quietly. "I have also had quite enough. Holmes?"

I shrug. "If you wish to leave, I am hardly going to argue. Just allow me to bid Lestrade au revior."

Lestrade is not in the best of moods when we part company. She assures me that she is going to make an official complaint in the morning.

I shake my head. "Leave it alone."

"But Holmes...!"

"I shall know what to expect and be better prepared in the future. Do not trouble yourself."

"The way that they treated you was wrong! 'Sides, Grayson could've put us on the next table; we get on well with Winters, Jones and the others."

"Yes, but then he would have had no means of entertainment," I smirk at her. "Forget about it; I am quite all right."

She nods. "OK then. G'night Sherlock."

"Good night my dear."

I climb inside the car while John and Watson exchange farewells with our colleague and allow the remainder of my upset nerves to calm themselves. I would be glad of my violin tonight, but I shall have to content myself with my keytar. Miserable Yarders! Just wait until McGregor and his friend Richardson come to me for help - I shall have my revenge then! I smile to myself and stretch my legs out before me, enjoying the ample leg-room as I plan my words carefully. I feel much improved by the time we take to the air and make for Baker Street.


	8. The 8th of December

**Monday 8th December 2104 - Carol Singers**

_Thank you for the reviews; particularly those to whom I cannot reply. I do hope that these are enjoyed. I am finding this rather difficult; partly because each tale must fit in with those that come before and after and partly because I am not receiving prompts for them and I have a lot to fill. _

_If you have a prompt or suggestion, please do submit it as a review or PM and I shall see how far I can run with it. A little inspiration can go a very long way._

* * *

"We wish you a merry Christmas,

We wish you a merry Christmas,

We wish you a merry Christmas,

And a happy New Year..."

The voices reach our sitting room loud and clear from out in the street. I know those voices - and the tuneful whirs and beeps - and I smile.

"I do wish that the children of this era would learn some traditional carols as opposed to the songs that they favour these days," Watson complains. "I rather miss 'The Holly and the Ivy', 'Silent Night' and the 'Sussex Carol'."

"Mm, I rather like the 'Sussex Carol'," I second with a smile.

"What's that?" Deirdre's voice asks as the living room door opens and our Irregulars enter and take their preferred seats. "What's a Sussex Carol?"

"It is a very beautiful traditional Christmas Carol," I respond. I then sing a few bars to demonstrate.

"That is beautiful," Wiggins agrees quietly. "I always thought the old songs were boring."

I snort with irritation. "They are at least rather less repetitive than 'We Wish You A Merry Christmas'!"

He raises his hands hastily. "OK! OK! I'm sorry! I don't know any carols."

"We could remedy that," John suggests brightly, having entered the room behind the Irregulars. "We could teach it to you."

The lesson does not stop with the 'Sussex Carol'. 'Silent Night', 'O Little Town of Bethlem', 'While Shephards Watched'... We do not stop until Watson complains that his throat is becoming sore with overuse.

Wiggins nods and rubs at his own throat with a grimace. "Yeah. Mine too."

"One should sing from the chest," I inform them while John goes down to the kitchen to make some drinks. "Your throats hurt because you are straining your vocal chords. You should know better Watson; stand up straight and with your shoulders back. That's right! Deep breath in, as if you are preparing to shout across a vast and noisy training ground... Excellent! Now, repeat after me: 'In the bleak Midwinter, frosty wind made moan; earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone'..." I beam at him when he does so. "Much better old fellow! Your voice had much more power to it. Now then Wiggins, it is your turn."

By the time our Irregulars leave us and return home, they not only know ten new Christmas carols but - more importantly - how they should sing them. What the deuce do the schools teach the children of today?

Watson settles back in his armchair, quietly humming 'In the Bleak Midwinter'. "What will you teach them next?"

I shrug and smile. "How to make bows and arrows, perhaps. Mycroft and I used to do that when we were boys," I smile at the memory. "Mycroft was a better shot; not that he ever shot anything, mind you. Apart from our nanny, of course."

He gazes at me in surprise. "But why did he do that?"

Because she enjoyed inflicting her cod liver oil on us. Because she used to scrub us raw at bathtime. Because she knew as much about affection as our parents did and had a malicious streak besides. I simply shrug. "Because he could conceal himself so as not to be caught."

He simply snorts and then frowns at me thoughtfully. "Do you really intend to show them how to make bows and arrows?"

I smile at the thought. "Oh yes."


	9. The 9th of December

**Tuesday 9th December 2104 - Pipe burst**

_My apologies regarding the lateness but this story has taken me much, much longer than anticipated. You shall soon see why, I believe._

It is dreadfully cold out. There are ice patterns on the windows and a sharp chill hangs in the air as I pull on my dressing gown and go through to the sitting room to light the fire. I am glad that we have no reason to go out today. This is the weather for enjoying a warm hearth and hot pot of tea.

I am still warming my hands before the fire when Lestrade calls. We are needed - myself, John and Watson - straight away. No amount of protestations will sway her.

"You work for New Scotland Yard and you answer to me Holmes," she growls. "Zed! Since when are you so lazy?"

Since it became so damned cold! She does not live in a listed building; she does not have to endure draughts or single-glazed windows and her apartment has efficient central heating. I frown at her image on the screen before me and sniff.

"Well, what is the case?" I ask warily. I am beginning to wish that I had the freedom to pick and choose my work, as I could in days gone by.

She smirks. "You'll find out when you get here. Where's Watson?"

"I believe that he is still in bed."

"It's nearly ten AM!"

I shrug with my hands. "We had a late night."

"Get him up. Both of you get dressed and then come meet me at the Yard. I'll explain over breakfast. Hurry it up!"

When we meet our bossy friend, Watson is still yawning. A hearty breakfast soon revives us both, however, and John is already paying close attention.

"So what were you doing last night?" Lestrade asks as she dips her doughnut into her coffee (someone really should give this woman some lessons regarding manners and etiquette!).

Watson rubs a hand over his eyes. "We decided to accept an invitation to the opening of the new French restaurant near Mayfair," he begins.

"You were actually there last night?" she asks incredulously. "Zed! Why didn't you say so?"

"I did ask whether you were busy last night," I remind her.

"We were hardly going to boast about what you were missing," Watson adds.

I grimace. "Not that you missed very much, as it happens."

"Yeah, I know; a pipe burst and the clientele had to be turned away. The manager's screaming blue murder!"

I raise my eyebrows at this. "Why is that?"

"He says it's sabotage," Lestrade shrugs. "I say it was real cold last night and these things can still happen, but he wants New Scotland Yard to look into it and the chief says that means us."

Dull. Well, at least this case should not involve becoming cold and wet. It does have that in its favour. "I suppose we should humour Chief Inspector Grayson."

"Yeah, I guess so," she responds sarcastically. "Eat up you guys; he'll want us there 'ASAP immediately'."

When breakfast is finished with we make our way to the restaurant that we attended last night. I travel with the ever-reckless Lestrade while John drives my car with Watson as passenger.

With thanks to Lestrade's fast and quite insane driving we arrive first to discover that pavement and road alike are as smooth and slippery as glass. I carefully step from the police car and grip it for support. The Yarder's boots have better grip than my shoes, but still her feet slip and skid beneath her.

"Be careful how you tread," I warn our companions when they arrive. "The pavement and road are like an ice rink!"

"We should have brought skates," Watson jokes with a small smile.

John is as practical as ever. He first tests his grip and then helps my companion of old to leave the passenger seat of the car, instructing him to brace himself against him in order to remain upright. They then rescue me, so that I am clinging to the robot's left arm while Watson is gripping his right. It is in this manner that we approach and enter the building.

"Did you notice anything strange last night?" Lestrade asks me quietly as her violet eyes take in the decor.

Of course we had not! When I notice something out of the ordinary I docket it in case it proves to be important and had Watson seen or heard anything unusual he would have mentioned it. I am about to give a deservedly cutting and sarcastic response when we are interrupted by the manager, a Monsieur Jacques Bellinger.

"Thank you for coming so quickly. As you can see, the fixtures and fittings have been ruined. We have had to have the electric turned off because the water has got into the wiring and we have no idea when we shall have the water back on... It is an outrage!"

I rub at the tip of my nose thoughtfully. "There was rather a lot of ice out in the street as well."

"Well, what difference does that make?" the man snaps at me. "The street is hardly my concern!"

I shrug and give him just the hint of a smile. "It was merely an observation."

"Humph! Who are you, anyway?"

I make a small bow. Such a show of formality is unheard of in this era and as a consequence it never fails to arrest the attention. I permit myself a small smile. "My name is Sherlock Holmes." I then go on to introduce Watson, John and Lestrade while the previously pompous man flaps and fusses. My fame obviously causes him to regret his poor manners.

We eventually turn to our reason for being here. The manager escorts us to the place of the pipe burst, which took place midway between the staff cloakrooms and the kitchen. I immediately understand his reason for believing it to be an act of sabotage, for this could most assuredly not be caused by ice. I am about to say as much when Watson speaks my thoughts.

"It is strange that the pipe should burst here, is it not? They usually burst in the winter due to ice, I believe. Holmes, you know a little about plumbing..."

I nod and touch a finger to my lips thoughtfully. "You are absolutely right. The water expands as it becomes ice, until the pipe is too narrow to contain it and it bursts."

"Very enlightening I am sure," grumbles Monsieur Bellinger.

"It means that the pipe should have burst outside Jack," Lestrade says. "Holmes is saying that you could be right."

"Of course I am right!" he grumbles.

"Hum. Do you have any enemies?" I ask of him.

He puffs out his chest. "This restaurant was set to become the finest establishment in New London! I expect every last restaurant owner could be considered a suspect."

I frown thoughtfully. He is undoubtedly being ridiculous and yet there may be a sliver of truth in his words. Watson and I, having been turned away from here, had made haste to our favourite five star restaurant that is situated on the bank of the Thames. I doubt that many of the establishment's guests would have simply gone home and cooked something instead. Anyone wishing to see off the new competition could have had a part in this.

This case is not without interest. John can detect traces of a coolant that must have been used on the pipe. I had not thought that it was possible for water to freeze within the building, but it does seem odd that a fellow would choose to do such a thing here, where countless people must have been bustling about. Surely he would have been seen?

I tell John to contact the water board and to try to find out why there is so much ice in the street, for I see no reason for it to be there. The restaurant did not flood to the point of overflowing into the street while we were there or else we would have been forced to return home; the weather was much too cold for a fellow to remain out in wet clothing.

Lestrade rubs at her bare arms and shifts restlessly from one foot to the other. "Sure is cold!"

Bellinger merely shrugs at the complaint. It is, after all, he and the staff and workmen that have to remain working in these conditions.

"Holmes!" John smiles at me. "You are quite right; there was a second pipeburst in the street. The water had to be turned off for three hours."

Ha ha! Well, that is quite possibly of interest, though it is just as likely a coincidence. I shall docket that for now.

"This coolant that you found traces of John," I gesture at the broken pipe with a gloved hand. "Where might one acquire it?"

"From a lab, I would imagine," he responds. "Should I ask the Yard computers to find out for us?"

"Yes please," I examine the pipe with my lens once more, but there is nothing out of the ordinary apart from some blue residue left by said coolant.

"What now?" Lestrade asks of me.

I shrug and thrust my lens back inside my pocket. "Well, well, there is little more that we can do here. We should check the ruptured pipe out in the street and see if we can see any connection and we should also attempt to trace this coolant. I would also like to question your staff, Monsieur Bellinger.

"Then you suspect my staff?"

I smile. "I did not say so. You must realise Monsieur, that at this present moment anyone might be a suspect. All that I know is that this pipe was deliberately frozen in a very curious place. Anyone might have seen him, yet he chose this spot."

"But why?" Watson asks.

I rub at my forehead with a grimace before giving my head a shake. "Exactly Watson; why? That is the question that beats in my head like a hammer. Why here, where he might be seen?"

The manager shrugs. "I shall give everyone an extended tea break so that you can question them this afternoon. They will want to be given an opportunity to warm up again and if one of them is guilty, he or she might find it harder to tell lies to you if they are tired."

The fellow could lie all he likes, for it would do him no good. All the same, I appreciate Monsieur Bellinger's willingness to co-operate and thank him.

"You are most welcome Monsieur Holmes. Is there anything else that I could do to assisst you in your enquiries?"

"Um... I do not suppose that you would have your employees' photographs on file, would you?"

Having acquired a file containing photo identification of every employee on payroll, we step rather awkwardly back out into the frozen street. As I had anticipated, the pipe here was also frozen by the coolant. By all appearances, a smaller quantity was used and as a consequence the damage took longer to become serious. It is clear to see that the rupture started off as a small split which gradually became a long crack with a large hole approximately at its centre. I would imagine that this was a trial run to see what would happen.

"John," I sniff and turn my attention to the compudroid. "Have you had any response from your friends at the Yard?"

"One of 'em said he's got a lovely way with words and sent him kisses," Lestrade teases.

He blushes and clears his throat. "Nothing of the sort! Yes Holmes; one of the labs reported the very same coolant missing more than a week ago, but it has not appeared on the black market."

"Thank you John," I smirk at him. "You can return to making love to the Yard computers if you wish it."

Lestrade chokes. "Did I just hear you right? I didn't think I'd ever hear you talking dirty Holmes!"

I raise an eyebrow at her in annoyance and confusion. "Hum! 'Talking dirty' indeed! The filth that comes out of the mouths of some of your colleagues and you have the nerve to say that speaking of professing love is 'talking dirty'! Really Lestrade!"

"Oh..." she grimaces. "That was what you meant. I see. Sorry Holmes, but that kinda means something different these days."

I grumble. "Everything means 'something else' these days! I am filling my poor brain attic with lists of words and phrases that I am not to use, when I should be taking note of rather more practical things! It is intolerable!"

Watson gives what would appear to be a shudder. "Perhaps you could teach them to me old fellow?" he requests quietly.

Yes. I think that that might be wise.

The next port of call is the lab. We first request another folder containing photographs of all the employees and then we go and watch the CCTV footage. It is tedious but, sadly, necessary. Beside me, I can see Watson's head nodding as he fights to remain wakeful; I am clearly not the only one that struggled to sleep due to the cold last night.

John has scanned every photograph and is busy comparing every face with the face of the fellow on the screen.

"Anything jump out at you Holmes?" Lestrade enquires.

I shake my head. "The lab coat is a little long for the fellow, but that could be deliberate; it covers most of his trousers and makes it difficult for us to see what he is wearing underneath. Helloa! Helloa! How could I overlook that? Look at his feet."

She peers at the screen. "What about his feet?"

"He is wearing socks over his shoes!" Watson notices. "But why Holmes?"

"Well, to muffle the sound of his footfalls, obviously. This fellow was clearly in a place that he would not easily be able to explain. Yes John? Any luck?"

"I think that I might have a match! Look up employee number 147456XB."

Lestrade does so. "Thomas Barton... Yeah, it looks like it could be him; I'd say his height matches the guy in the video footage."

"Then we shall have a talk with Mr. Barton. Where is he?"

John grimaces. "He is no longer employed here."

"Ah! He thinks that he can outrun our little pack of hounds, does he? We shall see about that! John, get the computers at the Yard to trace him; we have his National Insurance number and bank details in that file, I believe."

The computers rather take the fun out of the chase, but at least they move things along faster. Cases rarely last for more than a day as a result, meaning that even I can find time for food and sleep.

Mr. Barton is traced in under half an hour (a task that might well have taken Watson and I days in our own era). The cunning devil works as a cleaner at the restaurant. We have him!

"He will not be at work today," Watson predicts as we leave the CCTV room.

Lestrade frowns at him. "Why not?"

"Well, the water has been turned off and the damages have to be tended to. He would surely not be required to attend work under such circumstances."

"Excellent Watson!" I congratulate my companion. He has improved so much since I first met him and I cannot help but feel a little proud.

"I forgot that they've got no heat, light or water," the Yarder groans.

"Well, we can at least inform our client that we have a scent," I remark cheerfully. "John, do we have an address for our fox? We do? Splendid!" I rub my hands together. "Might I suggest that we allow the fellow to believe us to be very much in the dark? Lestrade, if you and John question the employees as per Monsier Bellinger's suggestion, Watson and I can take the fellow by surprise at his house."

"Sounds good," she agrees. "Come on John."

Watson and I are soon on our way. The fellow lives in one of the most 'down market' low-rent areas of New London. We pull up around the corner from his house and pull our coats up close as we make the final stretch of the journey on foot.

"Damn!" I hiss to Watson. "Our quarry is at home but not alone. All right old fellow; go round the back and wait for back-up. Have a care."

"You too Holmes."

I approach the doorstep and ring the bell, stepping from one foot to the other and stamping occasionally while I rub at my arms and hunch my shoulders.

When the door opens I adopt a grateful and weary smile. "Ah, hello. Could you help me? My car has broken down and I can't seem to turn my 'phone on. Could I just use yours to call for help? I can? Oh! Thank you! I would be most grateful. It is dreadfully cold out here and I have no idea how long I spent trying to coax the infernal machine into life."

As I enter the house I recognise the face of the fellow's companion. He also recognises me.

"Mr. Holmes! What are you doin' here?"

I sniff and smile at the owner of the night club that is situated in rather close proximity to the flooded restaurant. Lestrade and I have had dealings with this fellow before and I should at least try to play for time.

"Chance Mr. Finley," I reply to his question as I rub at my arms. "I have had the most dreadful evening, but I would not wish to bore you."

"Who d'you think you're kidding?" he snarls at me. "You came here to spy! Well, where's your little Yardie friend, huh?"

In an instant I am facing an ionizer gun and I very much doubt that it is set only to stun. Were I wearing my Inverness, which is made of the same fabric as the Scotland Yard uniforms, that would be of no consequence as the most dangerous blast would do little more than stun me. Tonight, however, I rather foolishly decided to adopt the outfit that Lestrade refers to as 'the injured penguin' (my long black coat and top hat over my black suit with white shirt), for reasons known only to her. (I believe that she prefers to see me in rather more colourful attire. Most likely because it is fashionable to wear brighter colours).

I do the only thing that I can and face him down with a small smile. "You are not going to use that."

"How much d'you wanna bet then?" he returns with a smirk. "Wanna bet your life, Sherlock Holmes? You are a betting man, aren't you?"

I do not flinch when he waves the gun under my nose and I maintain my outward calm appearance, but behind my mask I feel the cold thrill of fear.

"Do you truly believe that my friends would not take revenge should you do me lasting harm?"

He throws back his head and laughs. "'Lasting harm', he calls it! That's a good one!" he leans in close and I can smell the tang of stale alcohol on his breath. I fail to react due to practice of maintaining a mask and nothing more; the smell is absolutely repulsive. Now is not the time to antagonise the fellow.

"I ain't gonna do you no 'lasting harm', see? I'm gonna kill you. Then I'll chop you into bits and chuck you in the Thames.

I feel the adrenelin coursing through my veins increase. This is much better than cocaine, let alone caffeine!

"Why did you arrange to put a stop to the opening night of the Carte Blanche?" I ask him calmly.

His face breaks into a dangerous smile. "You can't prove it was me."

I gaze at young Mr. Barton. He has been very ill-at-ease since I entered. He flinched and paled when I was threatened and he is currently looking on with an air of dejection and defeat.

"I did not say that I could," I respond quietly. "I was unable to prove a thing the last time because my only witness refused to testify," I deliberately keep myself from allowing my eyes to flick in the direction of the young man. "Then she strangely disappeard without a trace. I cannot help but wonder where she might be now..."

"I never killed her."

I blink and adopt an expression of surprise. "I did not say that you had."

"I told her to keep quiet if she knew what was good for her. We both know what happens to things what squeals; they ends up in a butcher's, hanging up or getting chopped up."

"She did not 'squeal' though, did she?"

A smirk spreads across his face. "No. She wasn't stupid."

"I must confess that I am a little confused Mr Finley. You first say that you did not kill her, which is a rather strange thing for a fellow to burst out with, I must say; then we have the curious manner in which you insist on talking of her in the past tense. Is she living or not?"

He shrugs. "If she's dead, I never touched her. OK? That's all I know - I never touched her."

"I understand perfectly."

He is either rather more paranoid than I believed him to be or my expression or tone gave something away. Either way, the fellow is suddenly waving his weapon in my face again.

"Wanna know what a fully charged ioniser does to a bloke if he gets shot with it up close and personal?" he growls. "It's over quick, but it hurts..." then he smirks nastily. "Unless I don't fire it at full charge. You're a man of science, aren't you? Shall we find out how many low-grade shots it takes to kill you?"

I shrug. Perhaps if I seem bored he shall waste further time attempting to frighten me. Finley likes to induce fear into the hearts of his adversaries. Were I wearing my Inverness I would not have anything to fear, but in this situation I must have a care. "If you wish it," I respond with a yawn.

"Yeah? What does that mean? Huh?"

I do wish that he would not wave that gun in my face. It is hardly what I would consider good manners, or even passable manners. If this continues I am going to snatch that ioniser from him just to put a stop to it.

"Why did you want Carte Blanche to be unable to open?" I ask again, carefully avoiding making an accusation of any kind.

He snorts and spits on the floor; this chap is a charming gentleman. "The manager's a snob! He's been tryin' to have my club closed down - says it brings the area down!"

It does. It is a den of thieves and scoundrels. "I could not imagine why."

"Think you're clever, huh?" He wags the gun beneath my nose again.

I am about to give in to temptation and throw caution to the wind when there is a heavy policeman's knock at the door.

Finley snarls and makes a run for the back door, but Watson is there with two constables. He growls a curse at my friend of old and raises his gun, but I have hit it from his hand with my cane before he can fire it. Watson's coat might be ioniser-proof, but I hardly want him to cause the fellow to collapse on the uneven paving on which he is standing; he might hurt himself.

The criminal is soon lead away to the waiting police car in a sullen silence. He seems to be of the opinion that threatening myself and my colleagues is a pardonable offence and that we will be unable to prove anything else against him. We shall see.


	10. The 10th of December

**Wednesday 10th December 2104 - mistletoe**

I would never admit it, but I have been sleeping. I found it difficult to meet with Morpheus last night, what with the case and one thing and another, and so I eventually succumbed on the settee when I simply ran out of energy.

Something is tickling my ears and causing my forehead to itch. I open my eyes at the sound of a resounding click.

"Merry Christmas Holmes," Lestrade smiles at me as she shoves something that looks suspiciously like a camera into a small pouch.

I force myself into a sitting position none too gently. My protesting body is a mere appendix to my brain and so it is easily ignored. "What brings you here?"

"The pipeburst case is officially concluded," she informs me with a smile. "I thought you might wanna know that we've got a confession."

I smile. "At last! I have come up against Finley on three occasions in this last year, despite being... indisposed... for a time. I wonder if I would be able to prove him capable of his other crimes now that we have him within our grasp..."

She sits beside me and rests a hand upon my shoulder. "You can afford to take today off; you earned it. I heard about what you did - facing that guy without any protection while he waved a zedding ioniser under your nose."

I shrug and smile. "Somebody had to keep him busy and I could not send Watson in - he has no weapon either and is best suited to combat, not negotiations."

"Well, even the Chief has to admit it was heroic and you did a good job, so you should be pleased with yourself," she then pokes me and wags a finger in my face. "But I'm getting that injured penguin getup of yours ioniser-proofed. You could've been hurt or worse!"

I sniff and shrug. "I did not expect to find Finley there," I admit. "I did not expect to find anyone aside from Barton and Finley has a habit of replacing his cars so frequently that even I am unable to keep up."

"Are you sick?" she asks half-humorously, though I can see her underlying concern. "That's two mistakes in a single month! Are you OK?"

"Hum! Very funny Beth."

She huffs and touches my arm. "Joking aside Sherlock, maybe you need a break. You seemed tired yesterday..." she shivers and grimaces. "It's cold in here too. Why don't you take a vacation? I bet Watson'd thank you for it and you know I'll call you if I need you."

I shall think about it. I frown as I again become aware of something atop my head causing my brow to itch and I snatch it. It is a red hat trimmed with white faux fur.

"What the deuce is this?"

"It's a Santa hat Sherlock."

"Is it really? And why was it on my head?"

She smirks. "To help keep you warm when you slept."

"Thank you," I frown at her. And then something catches my eye. It is green with white berries and it is hanging above her head from a red ribbon. "And what is that?"

She flicks her eyes up at it and smiles mischievously. "Mistletoe. Know what the tradition with mistletoe is?"

"No." Yes actually, but I am not encouraging that.

"Yeah you do," she smirks at me and then kisses my cheek. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

No actually, but I simply shrug and look away. It is rather warm in here and I shrug off the rug that I was covered with while I slept and go to stand in the window to make use of the draught.

"Aw! You're blushing!" she laughs. "I don't think I've ever seen you blush before."

Go away! "I am feeling hot, that is all."

She snorts. "Whatever you say. Bye Sherlock."

"Good bye Lestrade."


	11. The 11th of December

**Thursday 11th December 2104 - John has his head turned**

Today the weather is bright and still, though still chilly. Watson wishes to take a walk in Regents Park and I am happy to accompany him. We then persuade John to join us as well, even though he would rather stay and heat some spiced wine and keep the fire well stoked for our return.

"John, old fellow," Watson links an arm through his and smiles. "You are our friend and not a servant! Come now! Do you not wish to join us?"

"You will be cold when you return," he protests.

I dismiss this argument with a wave of my hand. "We shall get something hot to drink in the nearby coffee shop. Come now John!"

"Well... All right then - if you are sure."

The ever-fussing robot ensures that we are both well swathed in coats, hats, mufflers and gloves before we venture out. He knows what the temperature outside is because the computers at the Yard does and he is concerned (as always) for our health.

"I wish that it would snow," Watson remarks in a whistful tone. "We have had enough rain and it is just not the same without it."

I grumble into my muffler, which I have wrapped about the lower half of my face to keep my nose from becoming too cold. "Snow is an inconvenience; it makes it difficult to get about and nothing more."

"You must admit that it is beautiful to look at."

He always says that, but he also is always the first to be inconvenienced by the miserable weather. The cold has always caused his old wounds to ache and the Afghan war left his constitution somewhat weakened; the poor fellow was always rather more susceptible to illness than I was.

I suddenly realise that John is very quiet. I turn to talk to him only to find that he is no longer with us. A quick sweep of the immediate vicinity soon enables me to find him. The compudroid is standing a few paces behind us, talking with a very feminine-styled robot with flirtatious body language. As I watch, the female droid leans in closer to him and John blushes.

"Let the fellow be Holmes," Watson advises me. "It is nice that John has found a friend."

It is ridiculous! He is a robot, after all! How can a robot possibly feel attraction or love? For what purpose? Robots are built by man; they do not have to reproduce and pass their genes on. And yet the feminine one is clearly rather interested in him.

"Let's give them some privacy," Watson insists as he tugs at my arm. "Come along old fellow."


	12. The 12th of December

**Friday 12th December 2104 - Christmas cards**

_For my dear friend LA. As this is your favourite of my festive projects, I submit this for you._

This may be my second Christmas in this era, but it is the first year that I have bothered to think about cards or gifts. I was far too busy missing my family (by that I mean Watson, Mrs. Hudson and the Irregulars as much as - and perhaps more than - my brother Mycroft) and Victorian Christmases in general to feel much inclined to celebrate. This year I feel much better and would like to get into the spirit of things.

Watson has decided to find an amalgamation of traditional Christmas carols and much more recent (but arguably equally as traditional, seeing as most of them are at least a hundred years old) festive songs, which he has arranged in a personal play list on our computer. The music adds a perfect backdrop to our task.

"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas... With every Christmas card I write," Watson sings along with the computer quietly as he hands a card to me with a smile. The illustration is of two children in late 19th Century attire building a snowman.

"I am rather glad that it does not snow in New London myself," I retort with a sniff.

"Oh Holmes!" John shakes his head and slips a card that he has just written inside of an envelope. "Where is your Christmas spirit?"

I shrug and seal the envelope that I have just filled. "I am writing cards; what more do you want?"

I am surprised by the number of designs that hark back to our own era. With the way that everything seems to have changed I had expected the cards to have been modernised in some way.

Watson begins to laugh suddenly and produces from one of the assortment boxes a card with a cartoon of a rather shocked-looking Saint Nicholas in his sleigh being photographed by a speed camera as he and his equally disturbed reindeer rush past it.

"Hum. Yes, very amusing old fellow," I remark with a weary smile.

He nods and smiles back at me before emitting another peal of laughter. "It certainly is. I am giving this one to Inspector Lestrade!"


	13. The 13th of December

**Saturday 13th December 2104 - making crackers with the Irregulars**

"D-Bother!" I curse, only just correcting myself as I remember that my Irregulars are present. I know that Wiggins will swear (though he has not done so in my company since we first met) but I do not intend to set a poor example.

"Is something wrong Holmes?" Watson asks without looking up.

Yes! Can he not tell by my tone? "This glue is horrible! It is soaking through the paper and sticking everything to my fingers!"

"Maybe we could try something else?" Deirdre suggests.

Watson rubs a hand across his eyes. "My brother and I always made Christmas crackers when we were young. I would rather do that than buy them. Besides, it is really not very difficult."

"Show us how it is done then!" I growl at him in frustration.

"I have done; you told me that it was absurdly simple."

"It would seem that I was mistaken," I snap back at him as I slam the sticky mess down in front of him. "See for yourself!"

He tuts and shakes his head as he gingerly picks it up between thumb and index finger. "You have used far too much glue."

"It is like water Watson! It all came out at once!"

"Only a poor tradesman blames his tools," he shakes his head again and pulls it apart. "I shall show you again; kindly pay attention this time."

Watson has no difficulty in making the glue bottle behave for him. He makes it look deucedly easy! First he arranges the cardboard tubes that Tennyson has neatly cut into sections on the brightly-coloured paper with the prize, paper hat that (Wiggins and Deirdre made earlier) and joke (which John downloaded from the Internet and printed out) in the centre. He then neatly rolls it all up, with just enough glue to hold it all together.

"There," says he as he twists the ends. "Absurdly simple."

"Hum! Indeed," I admire his handiwork. "You certainly make it look simple. Perhaps if you do the gluing..."

He smiles at me cheerfully. "Yes, of course."

"Why haven't you decorated yet?" Wiggins asks.

"In my day, only a bounder would decorate for Christmas before Christmas Eve," I inform him. "It was not done."

They are surprised to learn this.

Deirdre frowns at me. "But everyone starts to trim up once Bonfire Night's finished with now."

Yes, I had noticed; it is impossible not to notice when most people put lights in their windows and hang them on the outside of their houses.

"Perhaps we could at least put up a tree a little earlier?" John suggests hopefully.

Why? Decorations always cause a room to feel terribly crowded! "How early?"

Watson takes a sip of his tea and grimaces. He has allowed it to become cold. "Next Saturday?" he suggests.

We could I suppose. "Hum. Perhaps. I suppose we could at least shop for decorations..."

"All of us?" John asks eagerly.

"Well, I see no reason to leave you behind John," I reply with a small smile.

Watson beams at me. "I should like to help you to select the items to hang upon the tree."

I return his smile. If it will please my old friend, it shall please me. "Well, well, these crackers are not going to make themselves; here you are Watson, glue this one for me would you? Thank you. John, might I ask what you are doing? More tea. Ah yes, that is a good idea."

I get up to add another log to the fire and turn Watson's Christmas music selection on the computer up a little. This done, I resume my task of assisting my companion of old while the Irregulars prepare to decorate the crackers that are almost dry.

This is one of those days that we shall quite likely always look back on with fond memories in the years to come. What a difference Watson's presence makes to the house, the season and, most importantly, to me.


	14. The 14th of December

**Sunday 14th December 2104 - off to the coast**

"I wanna show you something tonight," Lestrade tells me. "If you'll come along."

She has just asked me to accompany her to a quiet little coastal town. I am not quite sure why. Is walking beside the Thames not bracing enough? It is five degrees below freezing and the wind from the North causes the temperature to feel lower still.

"Are John and Watson invited?"

I watch a smile spread across her face and light her eyes. "It wouldn't exactly be the same without 'em, now would it? I just know that I don't even have to ask them; you're the old misery, not Watson and John."

Thank you my dear. "I do not despise Christmas you know."

"You could've fooled me! You were utterly miserable last year. And don't blame the cold or whatever it was you caught; you were miserable long before that."

I do not believe that I had had a physical illness at all. Grief and depression can take many forms, I have since learned. I had not been terribly unwell, not as I had been following the Roylott case; I had simply felt crushed and tired. If I had later developed cold-like symptoms, that could easily have been due to the weariness that had plagued me.

I shrug. "I was missing Watson and my own era. A house does not make a home my dear Lestrade."

She frowns as her eyes again meet my gaze. "You could've told me you were feeling like that," she says quietly. "I wouldn't have left you feeling so bad."

"There was little that you could do."

She shakes her head and allows her eyes to sweep over my face. "You're my friend Holmes. I would've tried. I thought you were just sulky so I left you alone."

"What was the good in simply sharing my misery with you?" I ask of her. "At the time, you believed Watson to be beyond restoring; you would only have been upset."

She throws her arms about me with such spontaneity that I jump slightly. "You're a good man Sherlock," she whispers. "But you don't have to spare my feelings. OK? We're friends and we should be honest to each other; if you feel bad you should say so."

I agree on the condition that she is also honest with John, Watson and I.

It is dusk when we arrive at the coast. The temperature here is lower than it was in London and is falling still lower as the light fades.

"Let's go get a hot drink," Lestrade suggests.

Watson agrees with a sniff. "I believe that it is my turn to pay."

The Yarder shakes her head. "Tonight's my treat; I'm paying."

"My dear Lestrade," I begin.

She shakes her head. "Call it an early Christmas present Holmes."

Very well then. I shrug at Watson and John and gesture for them to allow our Yarder friend to lead the way, as she has given us no clue at all regarding her plans.

After a good, warming drink of hot chocolate, we step back out into the street.

"Police! Outta the way!" Lestrade shouts at the building crowd, causing it to part like the Red Sea. She smiles and ushers us through with a quiet confession that she has always wanted to do that whispered into my ear.

I almost ask whether we are here on official business but stop myself. Of course we are not! Lestrade has never tricked me or my friends into working overtime and she seems too relaxed to be working. All the same, I should like to know why we are here, for I have not visited this coastal town since before my death. Does she expect me to read her mind?

Watson links his arm through mine. "I believe that she would prefer it if we would find out as the evening progresses Holmes," he whispers. "Do stop frowning at her."

I smile at him, though it is probably somewhat strained, and force myself to relax.

We have not been standing here long when music begins from somewhere. It is faint and seems to be coming from a long way off at first, but it is nearing us steadily.

As the music finally draws near, so does a mass of coloured lights which is lead by a slow-moving procession of dancing figures.

"Ever seen anything like this before?" Lestrade asks of us.

Watson and I both shake our heads.

"What is that?" I ask our friend as I point at the source of the lights.

It is a big, slow-moving thing that would appear to be made of paper and fabric, but there is the sound of an engine and there are figures dressed as cowboys dancing upon it to a tune that Lestrade informs me is from an old Western of some description.

"What d'you mean, 'what is it'?" she asks. "It's a float!"

I frown at the thing as it passes. "It is on wheels! Why is it called a 'float'?"

She shrugs. "Why is toad in the hole called toad in the hole? It hasn't got any toads in it, has it?"

"Not since the late 18th Century, no," I cannot help myself. I have always had a wicked sense of humour when the mood has taken me. I even (somehow) keep from smirking, despite my friend's expression of disgust.

The floats truly are a work of art. Each one is spectacular and it is clear that much careful consideration and time has gone into them.

"That was a carnival parade," Lestrade informs us brightly as we slowly make our way back to the monorail. "What did you think of it?"

Watson gives a sudden cold shiver. "I have never seen anything like it before! Have you Holmes?"

"No," I shake my head and address our Yarder friend with a cheerful smile. "Thank you for the new experience."

She shrugs. "Well, I keep saying that you've still got a lot to learn; I guess I better try to show you a thing or two."

Watson laughs heartily and I smile before turning to John. "And did you enjoy yourself?" I ask of him.

"I have indeed," he responds with a nod. "I have heard the computers at the Yard talking about closing roads off for carnival parades, but I did not know what they were. They are pleasant to watch."

"Yes indeed," Watson agrees, patting the compudroid's shoulder.

As we step onto the platform I notice that there is a slight delay. Well, at least that allows me time to purchase another hot drink before we climb aboard and return to New London. I am all but frozen and I can see that Watson and Lestrade are as well. All the same, I am not about to complain - this evening has been one of the most enjoyable that I have ever experienced.


	15. The 15th of December

**Monday 15th December 2104 - a rescue**

_Another long one, I am afraid._

"Holmes?" Lestrade's voice calls from the hall downstairs. "Holmes, are you here?"

I am already on my feet. The sound of the front and vestibule doors slamming as only that Yarder can slam them was enough to arrest my attention. I leap over the settee (without waking the slumbering Watson, who is curled upon it beneath one of our rugs) and step onto the landing.

"Ah, my dear Lestrade! Come up and join us, but do be quiet; Watson is resting."

She frowns at me. "At this time of the day? Why? Is he sick?"

Of course he is not! I drum my fingertips upon the banister. "No, my Boswell is in perfect health (as am I, thank you). If you cast your mind back, you will recollect that we had two cases yesterday, followed by rather a late night."

"You guys kill me! I mean, how d'you think I feel? Well, anyway, I'm glad you're both fit. I need you."

"Both of us?" I ask, casting a glance toward the settee. Watson truly is more than a little weary and I would prefer to allow him his siesta.

The Yarder nods. "The three of you, unless you've got more important things to do than help one o' your own. Inspector Scott Winters has disappeared toward the end of his shift. We've heard nothing from him for hours and his wife's frantic."

Winters is a friend of mine and I have met his wife. I also have a drawing from his daughter, Freda (fondly referred to as Freddie) pinned up in my bedroom (not that I plan to tell Lestrade as much) - they are, as far as I can see, a happy, loving family. If Winters has disappeared, it is most certainly not because he wished to do so.

In the blink of an eye, Lestrade and I are hurtling across New London at a sickening speed while John and Watson, in my own hovercar, move at a slower pace. My Boswell no longer suffers with travel sickness per se, but fast-moving vehicles - particularly those that fly - still make him frightfully nervous.

"Lestrade! Respond Lestrade!"

I answer the call quickly and am greeted by the face of our old friend McGregor.

"Oh. It's you."

"It is a pleasure to see you as well my dear Inspector," I respond with a sarcastic smile. "Lestrade is rather busy driving, but she can hear you well enough. What do you have to report?"

"I see; I'd best not disturb her if she's busy crashing. I just wanted to know where you - I mean she - is. I should've realised she wouldn't feel confident without you there to hold her hand, shouldn't I? Just left Baker Street have you?"

"Just come to the point," Lestrade growls. "Have you got any news?"

No. All that the irksome man was calling for was to find out whether my friend had joined the search. I somehow remain polite as I end the call. Soon after, Watson contacts us with news. Inspector Jones is in Winters' last known position waiting for us and has preserved the area as one would a crime scene.

The moment that we arrive I am put upon the trail.

"What was Winters' last message when he reported in?"

Jones shivers and rubs at his bare arms. Why are the New Scotland Yard uniforms designed in the way that they are? More to the point, how do the Yarders in them not freeze?

"He said he'd spotted a suspect heading for Camden Lock and that he was giving chase, but that couldn't have been where he was actually making for."

I raise my eyebrows. "Why is that?"

"Because there's nothing there! Only sightseers and holiday-makers use the canals these days and even they wouldn't be on a boat at this time of year."

All the same, it is the only lead that we have. I pull my magnifying lens from my pocket and set off on foot, keeping a weather eye out for clues all the while.

As I approach the lock, the sound of water reaches my ears from below ground. Then, as I near the source of the sound, my sensitive ears pick up the faint sound of a familiar voice. Winters!

I approach the manhole cover and lift it. It is too small an opening for even me to squeeze through but it does provide some light and allow the sounds (and revolting smell) to escape from below. The voice that I heard is most certainly that of Inspector Winters and I do fear for him, for his voice is becoming increasingly weary and faint.

"Winters? Can you hear me?" I call into the darkness. "It is Sherlock Holmes."

"Holmes," he sounds relieved. "How the zed did you find me? I was starting to think I was a goner."

Not if I can help it! "Just keep your chin up; we shall soon have you out of there. How are you?"

"Pretty cold and tired. If I hadn't managed to snag myself on something I'd have drowned by now; my hands are numb."

"All right Scott. Please keep calm."

"Hurry. Please hurry."

"Of course we will. You are my friend; I am not about to let you down! Now, keep your mind fixed on Mrs. Winters and the children - concentrate on fighting for their sake. You do want to be with them on Christmas morning?"

"More than anything Mr. Holmes."

"Well then," I quickly contact Inspector Lestrade. "I have found Inspector Winters. He is in a storm drain."

"What?" she gasps with concern. "Is he OK?"

"That rather depends upon your definition of OK. He is alive, but not well."

I investigate the immediate area while I contact John and am relieved when I realise that our friend is trapped in a network of drains and sewer systems that have not changed very much since my own era and that (more importantly) I have been forced to investigate this network of dank and uninviting tunnels before.

"John," I turn to my friend the compudroid when he, Watson and Lestrade join me. "Would you be so kind as to accompany me down there? I may need your assistannce."

"You're not going down there!" Inspector Lestrade grips my arm painfully tightly. "Zed Holmes! You need some protective clothing at least. We'll have to wait for that."

I gently take her hands in mine. "In which time Winters may die," I shake my head. "We cannot afford to wait."

"Then let me go."

I dismiss the thought with another shake of my head. "I have been down there before; I have more of an idea of what to expect and I also will have at least a rough knowledge in regard to my location. My sense of direction is still strong."

As Lestrade submits Watson immediately begins to insist that he shall come with us, but I cannot allow that. The last thing that I want is to allow my Boswell to endanger his health and safety. Besides, he will instinctively know how best to assist Lestrade when Winters is rescued and returned to the surface.

"No old fellow, stay here with Lestrade; she may need you. John and I shall call you should we need assistance."

The tunnel is dark, cold and revolting. The smell is almost enough to make my stomach lurch, so I cover my nose and mouth by fastening a handkerchief over the lower half of my face. That does make a small improvement.

Rats scurry about in the beam of John's torch but I pay them no heed. The creatures carry many unspeakable and horrid diseases, but they do not bother me as long as they remain at least an arm's length away.

John turns his torch beam upon me suddenly, aiming low so as not to blind me. "Be careful not to graze yourself Holmes. It is filthy down here."

The thought had occurred to me.

The compudroid watches me pick my way for a moment and then he is at my side with an arm about me. "Allow me to assist you Holmes," he insists. "I do not want you to trip down here and this water is becoming deeper."

I almost insist that I can manage, but I do understand his concern; I am not wearing protective clothing (such a thing had not even occured to me as there was no such thing in my own era) and I am at much more risk than the robot.

I pull my communicator from my pocket but John immediately tells me to put it away and concentrate on avoiding injury. "I shall make the call. Who did you wish to contact? Lestrade?"

"Yes. Ask her to tell Winters to start shouting and, if he is unable to raise his voice, tell her and Watson to shout for him. It will be much easier to locate our friend that way."

John obeys, all the while taking the lead and picking his way in a manner that enables me to follow with ease. The water comes up to the tops of my thighs now and I am horribly cold, wet and uncomfortable.

The shouting begins. At first it is disorientating as the sounds bounce and reverberate around the many tubular tunnels, but I soon become accustomed to it and am able to discern from which direction the noises are coming from.

We locate Winters after just one wrong turning, which would not have been a mistake at all had the tunnel not proven to be impassable.

John unhooks the exhausted inspector and lifts him into his arms. I hastily touch his pale and cold hand as it emerges dripping from the freezing and revolting water. "Winters? Can you hear me Scott?"

He groans and squirms in the compudroid's arms. "That you Holmes? I can hardly feel anything! So cold..."

He can barely speak either. His lips are clearly too numb to allow him to articulate his words properly and his voice is very soft.

"We shall soon have you out of here," I assure him. "Just keep fighting my dear fellow."

He nods and gives a slight shudder. "I have to pee."

Thank you for telling me. "You are already soaking wet and filthy; I do not suppose that it would make very much difference."

He shakes his head. "I can't do that!"

"Then what are you trying to say?" I ask impatiently. "If you can wait, wait. If you cannot..." I shrug. Were he not already so wet, I would ensure that he were able to avoid making a mess of his clothing; but exposing him to the cold when he is already as wet as he can get is most likely unwise. Besides, the smell of this water suggests that he has much worse than waste fluid on his clothing already.

I wait patiently while John allows the fellow to relieve himself, permitting them all the privacy that I am able. It is not a thing that I would like to witness. We then continue on our way again in the direction of the lock, John carrying Winters while I follow carefully with one hand at his shoulder while the other lights our way with his torch.

"Holmes!" Watson rushes to my side as I emerge and quickly tosses my discarded Inverness about my shoulders before taking my place on the bank to help John with his charge.

Lestrade helps me to scramble up onto the bank and allows her eyes to sweep over me. "Are you hurt?"

"Not so much as a scratch," I assure her with a bright smile, which is rather forced. "It is Winters that I am concerned about. He vomited when we were nearing the entrance to the tunnel; John is not sure whether that is due to exposure or illness."

"Hypothermia is sickness," Lestrade informs me. "It just isn't caused by germs. Anyway, we've got an ambulance on the way; he should be OK."

I certainly hope so, because I do not want to have to explain to his wife and children why he will not be celebrating Christmas with them.

"Hey! Are you OK Sherlock?"

I nod and rub at my arms, only just realising that my teeth are beginning to chatter and my knees knock. "I am only cold. If I am as cold as this, I dread to think how Winters must be faring."

"He is going to be all right," Watson assures me as he joins us. "John has found very little wrong, considering his dreadful ordeal. He might find it easier to remain conscious until the arrival of the ambulance if we keep him talking, all the same."

By the time help arrives we have the whole story. A man had been acting suspiciously and then fled from the scene when the inspector approached him. Winters, naturally, had given chase. The fellow had leapt in through the entrance to the old tunnel network of sewers and storm drains and so Winters had followed again. At first, following the suspect had been fairly easy but, when he came to a fork in the tunnel, the sounds had become confusing and the light to dim to see by. He cut himself and torn his uniform on something that he could not make out in the darkness and then he was struck from behind and fell face first into deep and filthy water.

This water was moving somewhat quickly and as a result he was swept along with it. He did not come to a halt until he caught sight of something upon which he could snag his ripped uniform. He could do nothing more than remain there and call for help, for he had lost his communicator when he had been swept along.

Lestrade shakes her head. "This is why we're meant to give some kind o' report before we do anything. You should've told someone what was going on before you went haring off alone. Zed! If it wasn't for Holmes..."

Winters is beginning to look as if he might be sick again and I calm Beth quickly by resting a hand at her shoulder. "I think he shall know better next time."

She is about to respond when the ambulance arrives. I am only too glad to allow them to take charge of our ill colleague and permit them to approach him, pulling Lestrade back with me as I do so.

"I hope he's OK," the Yarder remarks as we watch the paramedics do their work.

So do I, but fretting shall help nobody and I tell her as much. "He shall make a swift recovery, I am sure," I add with a small smile.

"What about you?" she asks suddenly. "Maybe someone should take a look at you."

No thank you. "John will do that when we go home, I am sure."

I am also sure that he will continue to monitor me for weeks to come, for the fellow does worry a great deal.

"I'll see that he does. Don't look at me like that! You don't wanna spend your first Christmas with Watson sick, do you?"

Of course I do not!

"No, I didn't think so. Go on, get John to take you 'n' Watson home. I'll be mad as zed with you if you let yourself get sick."

Yes nanny. "If you insist Inspector. Please keep us informed in regard to Winters' condition."

"Sure I will. Now go on home."

Watson slips his arm through mine. "Very well Inspector. Good evening then."

"Good evenin' Watson, John..." her eyes flick to meet mine. "...Sherlock. Take good care of each other."

Of course we will! We leave together and turn our feet in the direction of the hovercar. I am surprised to find myself becoming fatigued and Watson and John steady me between them. When we reach our car Watson assists me in scrambling into the back seat and then gets in beside me to allow me to rest my head in his lap.

"A hot drink, a warming bath and a hearty meal," I hear the fellow promise me before my eyes slide closed. "And then perhaps some entertainment before we have an early night."

That does sound wonderful.


	16. The 16th of December

**Tuesday 16th December 2104 - Battersea Dogs' Home**

Never before have I seen so many animals. Cats, dogs, rodents, birds and 'exotic' pets are all tended to here and many of them come with a 'sob story', as Lestrade would put it.

I escort Sandy and her family to the cat shelter (rather unwisely leaving John and Watson looking at the dogs), where we are met by a member of staff and taken to one of the large cat enclosures.

Inside this large shed with three other rescued strays is a rather sad-looking grey cat. Then, before anything can be said the animal has opened her eyes with a cry and ran to the front of the enclosure to press herself against the wire. Until this moment, I had not known that a cat could purr so loudly or show such affection.

"Suki!" Sandy whispers as she attempts to pet her cat through the wire. "I thought I'd never see you again."

Her little sister turns teary eyes to me. "Thanks! You're brilliant!"

Before I can speak a word I have her tiny arms about my legs in an awkward embrace. What can I say? I clear my throat awkwardly. "It was my pleasure, my dear."

Sandy's father shakes my hand. "You really are a very kind and remarkable man Mr. Holmes. Thank you."

"Please, think nothing of it," I respond, feeling awkward. "I really did very little; it was my colleagues that did all the work, as I have already said."

"Well, my thanks and praise extends to you all," he replies. He then clears his throat. "By the way, I'm a solicitor; if there is ever anything that I can do for you or one of your colleagues..."

I almost respond that we are quite capable of avoiding police courts, but I change my mind. I am still new to this era and a man that is as familiar with the laws of the 22nd Century as I was the law of my own era can only be an advantage to my work. I thank him and accept his card.

"In your case, and that of your colleagues, I'll waive any fees," the solicitor tells me with a smile.

"Percy," his wife chides him. "We should give Mr. Holmes a proper reward. It's only right."

I shake my head. "No. This result is reward enough," I nod in the direction of the happy children as they fuss over their purring cat. "I rarely have the opportunity to bring such happiness to my fellow man. Please, just have a merry Christmas."

Both parents thank me again and return my Christmas wishes. I then turn smartly and go in search of my friends.

"Holmes!" Watson calls as I approach. "What do you make of this fellow?"

The fellow in question is a setter. He is a handsome dog and has an intelligent face, but I have my misgivings all the same.

"I am not at all sure about rescues," I tell my companion carefully. "The older the animal, the harder he will likely be to train. He might destroy things, or leave puddles in the house..."

The dog lowers his head onto his paws and sighs dejectedly.

"He is not old!" Watson retorts.

"He is not a pup."

"Indeed not," John interjects. "Which means that he shall not want to be taken out every ten minutes to unburden himself. He should be more inclined to listen than a boisterous puppy as well."

"You have not kept a dog," I respond with a frown. "When I was a boy, we had many working dogs. I soon found that an animal of any age has his own free will and can choose not to listen if he wishes it. Dogs require a firm hand and a commanding voice.

"Then you shall have no difficulty at all," Watson notes with a small smile.

I shrug and read the dog's story from a notice attached to the mesh of his pen. His name is a ridiculous one and will not do at all. However, his story goes in his favour. He lived with a gentleman that had to give him up when he fell ill and was no longer able to care for him. Well, he must surely at least be clean.

"All right," I find myself saying. "We shall take this fine fellow on, but only on the condition that we change his name," I suppress a shudder. "I cannot see myself calling 'Pixel' in public - it sounds rather too much like 'Pixie' for my liking."

"We can decide upon a name over lunch," John says. "Come on; we shall have to ask a member of staff to reserve the chap."

We soon learn that adopting a rescue is not as simple as buying a puppy and taking it home. The RSPCA want to make sure that the animals will go not only to a good home but the right home, as they do not wish to have to continuously take back and rehome the same poor creatures. We are asked questions about the work that we do and the hours that we keep.

I explain first of all that I am quite familiar with working from home. I also make it clear that I could take a well behaved dog with me when I am forced to work away from London.

Watson adds that he and John are not always required to work alonngside me and that the three of us could easily arrange our time to ensure that Pixel shall not be left at home all alone for very long.

"Do you have a garden?"

Why is she asking us that? Most buildings in New London do not have gardens! I shake my head and drum my fingers upon the counter.

"No, we do not have a garden," I respond in my most genial manner. It would never do for me to lose patience now. "But I am sure that that is the common lot in this city. We do live very close to Regents Park, however, and we all three are no stranger to exercise."

The woman at the counter frowns. "And what happens when the weather is too wet and cold for you to want to go out walking?"

Before I can utter a single word, John clears his throat (or at least makes the noise). "If Holmes and Doctor Watson are unable to walk him, I shall do it," he says. "Although neither of them are lazy or inclined to be deterred by inclement weather."

Thank you John.

"And where would the dog sleep?"

"In the sitting room," John says. "It is the warmest and most comfortable room in the house," he looks at me pointedly. "I will not have him sleeping on the beds Holmes."

Why ever not? In my day, it was an effective method for keeping warm. I shrug; I do not wish to argue the matter here. We will discuss it later though.

"Well, you seem to have thought of everything," the woman at the desk smiles and then hands us information booklets about microchipping pets, vaccinations and vets' bills, advice on feeding and an advertisement that immediately arrests my attention. Obedience classes! Now that could be a perfect means of training the dog to listen to me and for me in turn to get to know him.

"Which dog is it?"

"Pixel," Watson responds. "The English setter."

"Oh, he is a beautiful dog and has had such a bad time of it," she remarks. "He's been with us since July. If he was a pup, he would've been snapped up before now, but being fully grown..."

I nod my understanding. Poor thing! And to think that I almost failed to look at him twice for that very reason myself.

"You can take him home in two weeks," she says. "We have to give him a full health check before we rehome him and I am sure that you've got arrangements to make. In the meantime, you're welcome to come and walk him. We won't be open Christmas Day, Boxing Day or New Year's Day though."

"But it's Christmas for them too!" John exclaims.

She shrugs. "We see that they're all cared for, but we aren't open to the public. We've got homes to go to and families to see, just like anyone else. If only pet owners were responsible, so would our poor animals."

I nod and swallow with difficulty. I would imagine that life here is rather like being in prison, even if the staff and volunteers like animals and want to do their best for them, but these creatures have done nothing wrong. They should have a loving home, with the promise of Christmas dinner, treats and toys on Christmas Day. I suddenly feel every one of my years.

I feel rather less depressed when we meet with Pixel and are permitted to walk him. He might well have had a dreadful experience, but he does not let it show. His whole body wiggles as he walks with the force of his wagging tail and he continuously stops to gaze at us over his shoulder with bright eyes, as if he cannot believe that he is wanted. Perhaps he can't.

The walk is pleasant but ends all too soon. The setter is lead away with many a backward look once we have said our goodbyes. I hear Watson sniff quietly beside me and wonder whether he is as affected as I am.

"Go on out to the car," John requests. "I just want to have a little chat with a member of staff."

The two of us return to the car arm in arm, both with our heads bowed and our hearts heavy. One cannot leave such a place and not feel saddened.

"I have been granted permission to donate a whole cooked turkey to Battersea for Christmas," John announces when he finally joins us and starts the car. "The biggest that I can find. And we should also get something for Pixel."

I agree. "A new toy," I decide. "He can have treats when we walk him. I am not sure whether food items would be shared amongst the other dogs and I want to know that he gets the things that we purchase for him."

John turns in his seat to gaze at us. "Are you both all right?"

I nod without looking him in the eye.

"The staff and volunteers do a very good job here," our friend informs us. "Did you notice that they play them music on the radio? Also, any dog that does not take well to being in a pen goes home with someone as a 'foster dog' until he is adopted. Those dogs tend to stay in the office or somewhere during working hours, so that they do not fret."

It is nice to know that these animals receive such a level of care, but I doubt that any animal would enjoy incarceration. I cannot get the image of Pixel being dragged away from us with that puzzled expression upon his face, as if he were trying to work out what the deuce he had done wrong, out of my mind. I very much doubt that I ever will.


	17. The 17th of December

**Wednesday 17th December 2104 - the Winters family**

Winters is well enough to be released from hospital, provided that he agrees to rest. I shall ensure that his wife knows that when John and I take him home.

"There is no need for the three of us to collect the fellow Watson," I tell my companion of old. "You had might as well remain here in the warm."

He shakes his head. "If one of us should stay at home and keep warm, it is you Holmes; you were terribly cold when we brought you home after Winters' rescue. Not that you are going to; you refused to stay at home yesterday."

With good reason; he and John might have returned with a dozen pets! Besides which, I feel perfectly all right. That probably is with thanks to the care of my friends, for I was suffering considerably that evening, but I am sure that I would have at least started to show signs of ailing by now were I going to do so.

"I should like to meet Mrs. Winters and the children," my companion of old continues. "Perhaps I could help to entertain the boys while you and John assist Mrs. Winters."

I smile at his mistake. "Freddie is a girl. Her name is actually Freda."

"She is the younger of the two, I believe."

I nod. "She is indeed. She is four in February, if I am not mistaken. Her brother Paul was six in September. I... uh... had been invited to his birthday party, but I was not really in the right frame of mind for such things at the time."

"You should have gone along," he chastises me. "I know that you like children. It might have made you feel better."

It might have done, but I am sure that my mood would have had a terrible affect on the party. I suspect that I was quite right to stay well away.

"Perhaps Watson. On the other hand, perhaps not. Anyway, I gave the young fellow a present; I believe that that is what matters the most to young children."

"If you say so Holmes."

A present! I have nothing to give the children. Christmas is still a way off, but all the same...

"Is something wrong old fellow?"

"I should make a start on my Christmas shopping," I respond with a shrug. "I really must make an effort this year. Well, shall we go? I would think that Inspector Winters would like to get home to his lovely wife."

Winters is terribly pale when we meet him. He is rather well wrapped up for a man of the 22nd Century as well and I suspect that he has caught a chill.

"Holmes! It's so good of you to come and get me like this," he smiles and shakes me by the hand.

I grimace and remove my Inverness to drape it about his shoulders. "Your hands are like ice old fellow! How are you?"

His smile only broadens. "I'm fit as ever," he assures me cheerfully. "I'm just anxious to get home to Debs. She must be beside herself with worry."

"I am sure that she is," I agree. "Mrs. Winters is a very attentive wife."

Watson shakes Winters by the hand next and then slips an arm about the chap. "You are cold! We should get you home."

"Thanks Watson. Good to see you again. I uh, didn't get a chance to thank you all the other day..."

My companion of old shakes his head. "There is no need! In any case, Lestrade and I only called the emergency services. It was Holmes and John who faced all the danger."

He shrugs. "You and Lestrade kept me conscious and helped Holmes and John to find me. I'd say you did a little more than just waiting for help."

"Absolutely," John nods. "Had you not been there, Holmes would have insisted on going into that tunnel alone Doctor Watson - you know that he would have - he knows those tunnels and I do not and he would have needed for someone to remain on the surface."

I see Winters give a shudder. "I'm glad you didn't go it alone Mr. Holmes. Lestrade was right; there's a reason why we're told to report in and wait for back-up. We both could've been lost."

I touch his arm. "Never mind what might have been. You are safe and John ensured that I was never in any danger; come now! Calm yourself."

He nods but thanks the compudroid for rescuing him and keeping us both safe all the same. The four of us then go out to the waiting hovercar.

Watson gets into the back with Winters and makes him comfortable while John seats himself at the steering wheel, leaving me to settle into the front passenger seat.

When we reach the Winters' apartment, chaos reigns. The children are overjoyed to have their father home safely and also seem rather excited to receive visitors.

"Daddy! Daddy you're back! Are you OK?"

"Yes Freddie. Daddy's just tired and wants a sit down. No, I can't pick you up right now."

"Did you miss us Dad?"

"'Course I did Paul! I was awful lonely in that hospital. Can you both stop shouting and jumping about though please?"

I scoop Freddie into my arms and place my deerstalker on her head, allowing John to take Winters through to the parlour.

"Stoppit!" she giggles and grins up at me from beneath the cap. "Hello Uncle Sherlock."

I smile back at her, though I do wish that Scott Winters had not introduced me to his little family as 'Uncle Sherlock'. "Hello there Freddie. Have you been good?"

She nods seriously. "But my teacher says I shouldn't be called 'Freddie' 'cause it's a boy's name."

I do wish that teachers would keep their opinions to themselves! I nod seriously. "Right you are then Fred."

She giggles again. "Fred is a boy's name too."

I feign surprised innocence. "Is it? Oh. I am sure that there was a lady called Fred in a film that I watched once. Is that not right Watson?"

My old friend chuckles quietly. "Yes, I recall 'Fred' Fairfax of Doctor Doolittle, but I believe that, as with young Freddie here, it was a nickname."

"Hum, yes, I do believe that you are right."

The girl is gazing at me with solemn curiosity. "That mean it's OK?"

"Of course it is!" I assure her. "You can call yourself whatever you wish. It is your manner and your conduct that is of importance, not your name!"

With the young girl now quite reassured, I turn my attention to Watson. The fellow has been introduced to Paul, who has insisted on being picked up, and Mrs. Winters, with whom he is talking to in regard to her husband's health and required care. The fellow is still a doctor first and foremost.

Mrs. Winters turns her attention to me. "Beth came 'round to see us yesterday. She told us what you did. Thank you! Were it not for you and John..."

I hold up a hand. "None of that my dear lady. Were it not for Lestrade, John and Watson I might have been lost with your husband. Besides, we none of us did a thing that your husband would not have done; he is a brave man and I consider it an honour to have been able to help him."

She smiles at me and sniffs. "Thank you. Would you stay for some tea?"

Nothing would give me greater pleasure! "If we are not intruding."

Tea is enjoyable and the accompanying cakes and pastries delicious. Mrs. Winters is a lady that would have been very much at home as a Yarder's wife in my own era, for she cooks and bakes all her own dishes and does not work, preferring to remain on hand to support her husband and children. That is just as well, as Winters is going to need her care if he is to make a swift recovery.

Before we leave, I hand Mrs. Winters three envelopes. "The ones for the children are not to be opened until Christmas," I whisper confidentially.

"You spoil our kids Mr. Holmes," she informs me with a small smile. "You really shouldn't."

"It is from the three of us and is only a small amount; a mere fifteen credits apiece given to each of them. If you would prefer, give them just a little of it to spend now and convince them to save the rest; it will be a lesson learned."

She is staring at me in disbelief. "You are all too generous!"

I shake my head. "They are good children."

I permit her to thank Watson and John while I bid the children goodbye. "Be good for your parents," I warn them.

"We have to," Paul responds.

"Else Santa won't come," adds Freddie.

I smile at them fondly as I don my Inverness and deerstalker. "No, indeed not. He shall have his helpers out watching all the children of the world by now."

Freddie bounces on the spot. "We already got our big present early. Daddy's come home!"

God bless this little family.


	18. The 18th of December

**Thursday 18th December 2104 - The Theatre**

Lestrade truly is fond of musicals. I have never before seen a rendition of _The Phantom of the Opera_ but I am not about to turn down an opportunity to visit the theatre - especially not when the Yarder has purchased tickets for John and Watson, as well as herself and I.

We are shown into our box and take our seats. I cannot help but wonder whether the inspector chose the seating arrangements for my benefit, knowing that I value privacy. I do not dwell on my thoughts for long; the music is incredible and the story interesting enough to draw even me in to the point of wishing to follow it.

"How did you like the first half?" Lestrade asks of us when the lights come back up for the entr'acte.

"It is an opera, not a football match," I sniff.

"The first act then. Whatever. Did you like it?"

"Very much," Watson assures her brightly. "Thank you so much Inspector."

I second that it is most enjoyable - the best modern musical that I have yet seen in fact (though that might be partly due to it being upon the stage and the atmosphere here. Television - or the silver screen for that matter - could never compare with the theatre).

John goes off to find us some refreshment while Watson and Lestrade each excuse themselves to make a brief expedition of their own, leaving me quite alone. It bothers me not at all. I gaze about me at the beautiful decoration, revel in the scent of a bygone age when the theatre was the best form of entertainment and cinema was yet to be imagined. The orchestra begins to play again and I close my eyes and listen appreciatively.

Watson is the first to return. He resumes his seat beside me and touches my arm. It is but a small gesture of companionship but I am glad of it and give him a cheerful smile in return. Then Lestrade resumes her seat, grumbling quietly to herself, and we engage in conversation regarding the 'first half'.

Watson admits that the exploding chandelier caused him to jump somewhat and I am immensely glad that he is not the recovering Army surgeon recently of Afghanistan that he was when we first met. I squeeze his hand.

"I wasn't ready for that either," Lestrade responds. "It nearly scared the zed outta me."

I raise an eyebrow at her but do not comment. I do wish that she would not swear so. "I notice that the chandelier is still swinging," I remark.

"I'm not at all surprised," John says as he returns with drinks and snacks. "It made such a tremendous bang that my microphone had to be reconfigured."

I have come to know that that would mean that it caused his ears to ring, if robots had ears. Mine are still ringing, if I am honest; I have very acute ears, to the point of my being able to hear the faint clicking of the railway tracks in the advent of an oncoming train.

I must confess that the sudden explosion also startled me somewhat and I am glad that my automatic reaction is to tense rather than to jump as the others do. It may be ridiculous pride, seeing as they were at least as unnerved as I was, but I do not like to betray myself with spontaneous reaction.

The second act proves to be as dramatic as the first. The masquerade ball scene is spectacular, the storyline thrilling... I am swept away by it all in a manner that I have not been by any production since my return.

The cemetery scene brings a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes. It is poignant and calls to my mind the many occasions that I knelt beside my Watson's grave, longing to find within myself the ability to move on and embrace my new life while I knew in my heart of hearts that I never could. Just as I begin to weep silently, Watson's hand takes mine in the darkness and he leans in close to whisper.

"Steady old fellow."

I nod and turn to address him with a reassuring smile. His own eyes are also bright and he says nothing more. My hand remains in his throughout the remainder of the second act, however, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze whenever he feels that I might need it. How well he knows me and how much he notices! Has it always been this way? Not for the first time since our reunion I find myself marveling at this man beside me; a man whom I would almost constantly accuse of failing to observe. I see it now. Watson does not observe all that I do because he is too busy observing me, watching for a sign that he might be needed at a time when I am too proud or left feeling too weary and inadequate to say as much. Perhaps it is I that is painfully obtuse!

When the production is at an end and we make our way out into the biting air, my mind returns to the revelation that took place within that box. I shall have to cast my mind back over our old cases together with this new information in mind; who knows what else I may discover.


	19. The 19th of December

**Friday 19th December 2104 - Snow**

"Holmes!" Watson's excited voice calls to me, attempting to pull me from a pleasant slumber. "Holmes? Are you awake yet?"

No. Go away Watson. I am warm, comfortable and (I was) enjoying the peace. I was awake well into the early hours and I should like an opportunity to catch up. I moan quietly and roll onto my side to curl into a protective ball and hide my face. Moments later the door that connects my bedroom with the sitting room opens.

"Holmes! Wake up!"

Why is my companion so excited? He sounds like an overgrown child!

He is shaking my shoulder and attempting to pull my covers from me. "Ah ha! You are awake. You would not be hiding your face and clutching your blankets in a death grip if you were not. Come on Holmes! It is almost ten o'clock; get up."

"No."

He ceases his tormenting and for a moment I think that he might actually be about to do as I want and leave me be.

"Are you ill?" he enquires with concern.

I sit up at once and glare at him. "For Heaven's sake Watson! Why must you always assume the worst?"

He raises his eyebrows and takes a step back. "Well, at least I got a reaction..."

I snort and wave him away with a yawn. My bedroom is cold and I do not wish to get up just yet.

"Holmes please," my friend sighs as I curl up again. "I want to show you something. It might all be gone before you get up at this rate."

I groan and permit him to drag me from my bed. "What might be gone?"

He beams at me. "You shall very soon see."

I am dragged to the window and my companion pulls aside the curtains with a flourish, the bright morning light dazzling me momentarily. I shade my eyes with my arm and squint until I become accustomed to the light. When I am able to see, I find that the air outside is filled with large, white flakes that whirl past the window at a dizzying speed. The street outside is already coated and there are frost patterns on the glass before me.

Watson wraps an arm about me when I shiver and rub at my arms. "You can go back to bed now, if you want to."

I sniff and lean into him for warmth. "You have successfully woken me, thank you. I believe that my returning to bed now would be most counter-productive."

"Oh," he responds in a tone that is supposed to sound sorry. "Well, in that case, why do we not have a quick breakfast and then take a walk? You said yourself that it only rarely snows these days."

I am bundled into my dressing gown and then thrust into the sitting room, which at least has a cheerful blaze in the hearth, and am told to hurry.

John pours me a hot cup of tea and passes me a plate of eggs and bacon. "Doctor Watson would like to enjoy the snow before it melts Holmes."

"So I gather," I respond with bad humour as I add salt and pepper to my eggs. "I must confess that I am surprised Watson. I was lead to believe that you dislike snow."

He smiles and shrugs his shoulders. "I disliked the manner in which the cold would cause me to ache. I always appreciated the beauty of snow."

That answers that well enough. I suppose my companion is glad to be able to enjoy himself regardless of the weather or temperature. I wish that I could say that I feel the same way; I have never enjoyed being subjected to the cold and a stroll in snow is not my idea of a pleasurable experience.

"You are all right, are you Holmes?" my friend asks of me with concern, causing John to regard me with care in turn. "You do not seem yourself this morning."

I glare at Watson coldly. "I am fine. There is nothing that I like more than having my sleep disturbed and being dragged from my nice warm bed on a perfectly freezing morning over a few flakes of frozen water."

He looks hurt. I do wish that he would not look so downcast; it quite ruins my current mood and transforms it into a very different one. All at once I find myself regretting my words and assuring him that we will indeed go out.

I eat hastily, finish my tea in record time and take myself off to dress for the weather. The temperature of my bedroom, despite the warmth of the fire burning next door, assures me that we are both likely to freeze.

Within half an hour we are trudging in the direction of Regents Park while John remains at home to keep the fire well stoked for our return. I suspect that he is not keen on snow and ice either.

We find the park full of children, doing what they have done in this weather for centuries: building snowmen, tobogganing and snowball fighting. The sound of their laughter hangs in the air and softens my irritation, despite the freezing wind that seeks out every scrap of my unprotected skin.

Watson slips an arm about me and rubs at my back as he gazes at me with concern. "Would you like to go home?"

He sounds as disappointed as he does concerned and I do not know quite how to react. I decide that it is high time that I am subjected to one of his whims and push aside my irritation, shaking my head as I attempt to draw my Inverness closer. I must stop wearing this cloak in all winds and weather, even if it is designed to be ionizer-proof (like the Scotland Yarders' uniforms), for I fail to feel its benefits when I need it to keep me warm as a result.

"Are you sure?" he presses. "You are terribly pale."

I sniff and wipe at my nose with my handkerchief. "Just a bit cold," I reply as I flash him a quick smile.

He nods and links his arm through mine as we walk on in the direction of the boating lake. "Let me know if you become too cold Holmes. I do not want you to fall ill."

I am already too cold! I shrug him off and insist that I am perfectly all right; I am not going to turn back when we have only just got here.

Watson sighs and walks on ahead. I turn and watch the antics of the children for a moment or two, enjoying the sound of their laughter. I am just about to turn back and follow Watson when something hits the back of my head, knocking my deerstalker to the ground.

"Sorry Holmes," my companion calls. "That was a little higher than I intended."

Right! If he wishes to be childish I can certainly oblige him! I bend to pick up my cap, scooping up a handful of snow as I do so.

"Oh my! What in Heaven's name have you been doing?" John demands of us when we finally drag ourselves home, frightfully cold and wet, quite some time later.

I shiver and address Watson with an icy glare as I shrug off my slushy, dripping Inverness. "Our friend here was remarkably childish and initiated a snowball fight," I grumble.

My companion sniffs and groans. "Sorry Holmes. I only intended to bring you out of yourself."

I address him with another glare. "You behaved like a complete imbecile."

"Ah... And I have apologised. Twice. I... Uh-huh... Huh-husshch! Hushoosh!"

"If you have caught a cold, I have no sympathy for you; it is entirely your fault," I inform him. All the same, I am concerned; I know from experience that the first illness contracted will most likely be the worst, for his constitution will be as unused to this century's ailments as mine was.

John looks from one of us to the other. "You should both get out of those clothes at once and then take a bath. Perhaps you should take the first one, Doctor Watson."

I agree.

Watson addresses me with a knowing glance and takes to the bathroom.

"Concerned I may be; sympathetic I am most certainly not!" I call after him before removing my clothing in front of the hot fire and wrapping myself in one of the rugs that John has fetched in from the airing cupboard. It is going to take me the remainder of the day at the very least for me to forgive the fellow.


	20. The 20th of December

**Saturday 20th December 2104 - Surprises**

I awake to the sound of fitful coughing from the room above mine and groan. This has been going on for much of the night, though my companion would seem to be sleeping through; there is no sound of his footsteps. As I have on every other occasion, I consider going to see that he is all right before deciding against it. I would not like to disturb Watson while he is unwell, for it is quite impossible to return to slumber when one is uncomfortable.

I eventually surrender all attempts to sleep and drag myself from my bed. I tug on my dressing gown and stagger into the sitting room in the dark. It will not be daylight for hours yet, so I turn on the lights before tending to the fire. A glance at the clock informs me that it is approaching three o'clock in the morning. Even John will not be awake for at least another hour yet. I curl myself into my chair and watch the fire catch and slowly fill the room with its warming glow.

"Holmes!"

I groan and squint up at John as he bends over me, my sleep disturbed yet again.

"For how long have you been up?" the robot demands of me with concern.

I yawn into my hand and attempt to curl further into my chair with a shiver. The fire has gone out while I slept. "I have had difficulty in sleeping."

He raises his eyebrows at this. "I am sorry Holmes. I had thought that you had ceased to suffer with insomnia upon Doctor Watson's return."

"I have," I assure him. "It is not insomnia..."

I am about to explain when Watson's coughing begins again, causing us both to raise our eyes to the ceiling.

"That sounds bad," the concerned compudroid remarks. "I should check the doctor over later."

I cannot help but be amused at the thought of Doctor Watson being given a check-up by a robot that had, until very recently, believed himself to be Doctor Watson. It is not difficult to quash my reaction, however; my companion's cough does indeed seem to be getting worse and I am as concerned as the robot. I wonder how he has managed to remain in slumber until now.

John decides to take our friend some water and to see if there is anything else that he might require, leaving me to relight the fire and attempt to return to sleep.

It is after ten when Watson ventures downstairs, dressed in his warmest suit with his dressing gown over it. His shoulders are hunched and I can see that he is shivering. Poor old fellow! I hasten to his side without a word and guide him to his chair before ensuring that the fire is not about to go out again.

He groans quietly and immediately begins to cough.

"What can I do for you?" I ask quickly, doing my utmost to keep the concern that is clutching at my breast from my tone. I do not like to see my friend so unwell as it calls unwanted memories to my mind and unnerves me terribly. It is most likely only a cold, I remind myself with annoyance. I am being quite ridiculous, for medicine has advanced and even pneumonia is not nearly as dangerous as it was.

Watson waves me away. "I am all right Holmes. I just need some water."

Then I shall bring him some honeyed water. That should help his throat, which must be paining him dreadfully after all his coughing.

After two glasses of honeyed water and a cup of tea, Watson assures me that he is feeling better and was probably more thirsty than ill. I am far from convinced, for he is still hunched shivering in his chair despite the warm fire. I say nothing, choosing to observe before making a comment of any kind.

"I was thinking that perhaps we could go out today Holmes," he says suddenly as John pours him a second cup of tea.

Now he has my full attention. I raise my eyes from my own cup to stare at him. "Why?"

"Well..." he pauses to cough into a handkerchief. "We were talking of decorating for Christmas last weekend and..."

I am not allowing him to set foot outside of this house for so trivial an errand as buying Christmas decorations. "Absolutely not!" I snap at him before he can say another word. "I am not going shopping for Christmas decorations while..."

But Watson is not listening. He has stormed from the living room, slamming the door behind him, and is stamping back up the stairs to his bedroom. I hear the door to his room slam shut as well.

"Well, that could have been handled better," John remarks. "Poor Doctor Watson! As if he was not already feeling quite bad enough Holmes."

I slam my eyes shut and massage the bridge of my nose tiredly. I did not mean to upset my companion, but I realise in hindsight that he most probably thought that I had decided that I did not wish to decorate our rooms after all.

I am about to explain to John when a very different idea presents itself to me. "I dislike decorating for Christmas, as you know well enough," I bark at the robot. "What is the point in going to all the trouble when we are only going to have to tear it all down again? It is a complete waste of time and effort!"

John looks deeply upset. Well, that was the idea; there is no point in regretting it now. Without a word the fellow leaves the sitting room to go and comfort and sympathise with Watson. So far so good! I hastily snatch up a piece of toast, drain the last of my tea in a gulp and go to get dressed.

Having informed my friends that I am going out and will most likely not be back until at least tea time, I pull on my Inverness and deerstalker and hurry out to my hovercar. There is still snow on the ground and flakes hang lazily in the air; it would appear that we are going to receive the snowstorms that have been absent from New London all at once. The moment that I am in out of the weather and safe in the knowledge that I shan't be overheard, I call Wiggins.

"Morning Mr. Holmes," he greets me cheerfully before taking a good look at my image on his screen. "Are you OK? You don't look too good."

I stifle a yawn. "A disturbed sleep will cause anyone to look the worse for wear," I respond, before describing the reason for my restless night.

"Poor Doctor Watson," the lad remarks with a sad shake of his head. The Irregulars have all become rather fond of my Watson.

I go on to confess my heated words, which were borne out of concern and not anger, and tell of my companions' reactions.

There is a whistle from Wiggins. "Sounds like your tiredness got the better of you. So, what's wrong? Didn't they forgive you when you explained to them?"

"I have not attempted to explain," I reply with a small smile.

He raises his eyebrows at this. "Why not?"

"Because my outburst and the reactions of John and Watson have provided me with a perfect opportunity to surprise them," I explain as my smile broadens. "How busy are you today my dear chap? Could you spare an hour or two to assist me, do you think?"

He smiles back at me. "I think that could be arranged Mr. Holmes. I'd like to do something for Doctor Watson."

I thank him and we begin to make our plans. I shall call Tennyson while he contacts Deirdre and we will all meet (if the others have no other plans) at the big departmental shop that has been advertised frequently as having all that one could ever need for the Christmas season under the one roof.

"Talk to me before you leave Wiggins," I request. "You shall want to know whether or not Tennyson will be joining you and I want to know whether or not it is just you and I. I shall give you a lift if that is the case."

"All right then. Uh... Mr. Holmes..."

"Yes Wiggins?" I wonder what could have just occurred to him. An arrangement that has slipped his mind, perhaps.

"Please don't drive when you're so tired. You really do look rough."

I smile and assure him that I shall rely upon the autopilot, feeling rather touched by his concern. I then contact Tennyson, leaving him to contact Deirdre.

Tennyson is only too glad to be invited to accompany us. His favourite arcade is closed for refurbishment after a pipe burst, he informs me, and he has been beside himself with boredom since the beginning of the school holiday. I advise him to dress warmly and to meet Wiggins at his home before contacting my first Irregular.

"Great! Tennyson's always quick when he's bored," the lad notes with a smile. "We can call for Deirdre along the way."

I repeat the advice that I have already given to Tennyson in regard to warm clothing and he repeats his advice regarding the use of the autopilot and keeping safe. It is pleasant to know that even I have friends that truly do care for me.

"I shall have a care," I assure him. "See you soon Wiggins."

I arrive at the shop first and park. The car park alone is vast! It is also freezing cold, as it is open and exposed to the elements, meaning that there is a chilling through-wind that bears the occasional stray snowflake upon it. Today, I am thankful for modern technology; I would probably have had to walk in this weather back in my day. I pull my cloak closer to me and hastily step inside the heated departmental shop and make my way to the main entrance to watch for the arrival of my Irregulars.

I have not been waiting long when the hoverbus carrying my Irregulars arrives and they disembark. I pull my Inverness back on and step outside to greet my young friends.

"Nice to see you too," Deirdre responds to my greeting with a smile. "What are we shopping for?"

"Traditional Christmas decorations, if they can be found," I reply. "Holly, ivy, glass baubles, candles and a fir tree."

"Real holly and ivy?" queries Tennyson.

I suppress a shiver as we turn to go back inside. "That would certainly be preferable. I want to decorate in as close to the manner in which we would have done during a Victorian Christmas as possible. This is Watson's first Christmas in this era and I want it to be memorable for him."

"Wiggins told us he's sick," Deirdre says with concern. "Is he OK? What's wrong?"

I shake my head as we step through the automatic doors together. "He has a rather persistant cough and chills, but I am not sure how he is feeling. He shut himself away when I told him that I did not want to go shopping with him."

"So we're gonna cheer him up a little," Wiggins sums up. "It's a nice idea."

I remove my Inverness again and drape it over my arm. "It is surprising what a difference positive emotion can have on the way that a fellow is feeling; indeed, negative emotions can cause a perfectly healthy chap to feel quite ill."

"I didn't know that," Deirdre says quietly.

I had not realised what an adverse affect such emotion could have on a fellow until I was brought to life here without my companion of old, but I keep that information to myself.

We first go through to the courtyard at the rear of the building, which is full of fir trees of various varieties and heights.

"Do we have to get a real tree?" Wiggins asks. "The man-made ones look just as good."

"I fancy that they do," I reply. "But real trees smell the part as well as looking it. I am sure that Watson would be disappointed if it was not real."

Before he can respond we are approached by a smiling assistant, whose apron informs us that his name is Rich. I explain to him that we are in search of a tree that is no less than six foot in height (anything shorter would look quite ridiculous, what with the high ceilings of our rooms) and of a variety that is not too wide, as our sitting room is not overly spacious. I also, if possible, would prefer one that is not too inclined to drop its needles.

The assistant presents us with a number of trees to choose from and, after some debate, we select one that is marginally taller than me. It stands straight and is not too wide to fit in the sitting room.

Now that I have the measure of the tree we can choose the decorations to hang upon it. I tell my Irregulars that I intend to keep to traditional colours and designs as much as possible.

"What sort of colours and stuff are traditional?" Deirdre asks.

"Red, green, gold and silver are the traditional colours," I reply. "Scarlet, crimson and emerald; no lime or teal greens and certainly no purples or oranges."

"Right, got it," Wiggins nods. "Real reds and proper green. OK, what about designs then?"

That is a good question. I narrow my eyes thoughtfully. "Round glass baubles, velvet ribbons... Parcels were traditionally placed on the tree as well, unless they were too large or heavy."

Hum! I might purchase one or two little things for John and Watson, simply in order to do just that and hang some smaller parcels on the tree. I shall also have to ask John to make some of his confectionary delights to hang upon the tree as well.

There are so many styles of decorations to choose from that I feel somewhat guilty about leaving Watson and John at home. They would have enjoyed this. Then I remember how terribly unwell Watson had looked this morning and decide that my decision to surprise him is for the best. Next year, we shall shop together.

We select enough glittering baubles, ribbons (I dislike the tinsel and have opted for reels of wired velvet ribbon to dress the tree with instead) and electric lights ("You can't decorate the tree with real candles Mr. Holmes! That's dangerous!" Pooh!) to sparsely decorate the tree. I am considering purchasing one or two extra bits as well, to decorate some of the furniture. Why not? With a small smile, I add a set of battery-operated LED lights, some extra-small baubles and some ribbon bows, along with an extra two rolls of wired ribbon to our rapidly filling trolley.

"What's all that for?" Tennyson asks. "Your car Mr. Holmes?"

I smile at him but say nothing.

The shop does not sell real holly or ivy. It does, however, boast a wide range of garlands; many of which consist of traditional (artificial) plants that look quite realistic. Most of them come fitted with lights as well, which makes things considerably easier.

I eventually pay for the purchases, including the tree which has been securely wrapped and readied for shipment, and the Irregulars assist me in transporting it all back to the hovercar.

I am just about to invite them to meet me at Baker Street when I hear the stomach of one of them grumble.

"How patient you all are!" I remark when I realise that the hour is fast approaching three o'clock. "You must be starving! Come, come; I believe that you have more than earned your lunch."

We have a quick but pleasant luncheon and then part company; the Irregulars heading for their bus while I return to my hovercar.

"See you at Baker Street," Deirdre calls with a wave of her hand.

I reach Baker Street first. Leaving the tree in its precarious position, stretching across the lowered back seats into the boot of the car, I take the bags inside and straight into my bedroom, where I also remove my outdoor clothing. I am just entering the sitting room when John tiptoes down from upstairs.

"Holmes? Is that you?" he whispers as he enters the living room.

Why is he being so quiet? "Yes John," I respond in kind. "How is Watson? Is he all right?"

He steps inside and sinks into his armchair with a sigh. "He has a dreadful cold! The poor fellow is quite exhausted from all his coughing as well, which far from helps matters. I had to give him some medicine to make him comfortable enough to sleep."

Then I have done the right thing. Good! All the same, I feel terrible for upsetting and then abandoning the poor chap and I shall have to apologise.

"Are you all right Holmes?" John asks suddenly when I rub at my forehead.

I nod and try not to yawn. "I am tired now that I have stopped. I should not have sat down."

He tuts and shakes his head. "I was forgetting that you did not sleep well. I really should keep a close eye on you, as well; colds are highly contagious before the symptoms even begin."

"What?" I hope that I have not caught Watson's cold and passed it on to the Irregulars! "Then how are we supposed to avoid spreading the miserable things around?"

"You and the doctor do all that you can," he replies. "You both cover your coughs and sneezes and frequently wash your hands; there is nothing more that you can do."

I shrug my shoulders.

"You are certain that you feel well, are you Holmes?"

"Yes thank you John. I will tell you if I do not." I suspect that my body would inform him that there is something wrong before I should even become aware of it; he knows the signs better than I.

He stands and goes to the door. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes please. I am expecting the Irregulars at any moment, so if you could make enough for four it would be appreciated."

He smiles at me. "Ah, now I see why you were suddenly so terribly concerned in regard to contagion."

I shrug with my hands and turn my attention to tending to the fire without a word. Of course I am not worried about myself!

By the time the Irregulars arrive, there is a tray laden with tea things (including some of John's biscuits) waiting for them. John has returned to Watson's side with the assurance that he shall inform us when he awakes.

My Irregulars and I share the pot of tea gratefully before making a start. The garlands are hung first by Deirdre, Wiggins and myself while Tennyson supervises. This done, Wiggins and I fetch up and erect the tree.

"We shall check the lights and put them on the tree," I tell my friends. "But I think Watson and John would want to help to decorate it."

"How is he?" Tennyson asks with concern.

I shake my head regretfully. "Not well. John tells me that he has a frightful cold and is quite exhausted."

"Poor guy," Deirdre sympathises. "Colds are horrible."

"Is there anything we can do?" Wiggins asks.

I smile. "Oh, this should cheer him nicely. I am sure that just seeing you will help, as well."

Once the tree is ready and waiting to be decorated, we share the biscuits and sit beside the fire for a moment. Tennyson then announces that there is something missing and selects some Christmas music to listen to on the Internet.

While we wait for Watson to awake, I find the extra decorations that I selected earlier and ask my Irregulars to assist me in decorating my chemistry set, explaining that it is meant as a joke that Watson should understand.

We have almost finished decorating the chemistry set when footsteps and voices begin upstairs. John seems to be telling Watson to stay in bed and he would appear to be unwilling to do so.

"Quick!" I hiss. "Put everything down and hide!"

The Irregulars take to my bedroom while I turn off all of the lights apart from the ones in the garlands and my chemistry set, the battery-operated lights having been left on in our haste to leave off the decorating.

Watson enters the room and sinks into his chair without looking about him. I suspect that he would even have neglected to notice the Irregulars had they remained, for he has not seen the many bags and boxes that are littering the floor and dining table.

I hurry to his side and rest a tentative hand at his shoulder. "Watson? Are you all right?"

He turns his watering eyes upon me and sniffs. "You are back then."

"It is good to see you as well old fellow," I retort with a smirk.

He gives a shiver and turns his eyes to the fire with another sniff. "You have calmed down somewhat since this morning I see."

He is still upset. I suppose that that is to be expected. I earnestly squeeze his arm as I attempt to explain. "I did not mean to shout at you. I was concerned and did not think about my words before speaking."

"Holmes, I heard what you said to John."

I give him a lightning-quick smile. "That was my intention. I wanted to surprise you."

He is about to ask what I am talking about when he notices my chemistry set. "Is that supposed to be amusing?"

"Yes, as it happens." It is all going wrong! He was supposed to notice the tree and garlands first. "Is it not festive enough?"

He turns his streaming eyes back upon me angrily. "I know that you did not wish to get a tree!" he gasps and begins to cough again with alarming violence.

I try to rub at his back in an effort to help but he pushes me away.

"You do not have to illustrate your point by decorating your wretched chemistry set," he finishes in little more than a hoarse whisper.

"If you truly believe that I would be so horrid to you - particularly when you are so ill - you know me not at all," I tell him. "For goodness sake would you look up Watson!"

He does so and stops still. "But..." he blinks and then rubs at his eyes. "I am very sorry Holmes."

I bark a laugh and hurry to let the Irregulars back in. "I must admit that I have had some help."

Watson greets them cheerfully. "It is good to see you."

"It's good to see you too Doctor," Wiggins replies with a small smile. "How are you? Any better?"

"Happier," he says with a smile.

Deirdre points toward the thus far ignored fir tree that is standing beside my desk. "Wanna help us with the tree Doctor Watson?"

"Tree?" he turns in his chair and then pulls himself to his feet somewhat unsteadily to approach it.

"I have made you a hot honey and lemon drink Doctor Watson," John's voice announces as he enters the sitting room. His footsteps falter, coming to a halt just inside the doorway and I cannot help but smirk at his obvious surprise.

"Hello John," Wiggins greets the compudroid cheerfully.

"I thought that we were not going to decorate the rooms after all," the robot says, to himself I assume.

I turn to smile at him brightly. "That was precisely what you were supposed to think. How else was I to surprise Watson?"

The tree is soon decked with the items that I purchased and then we are seated and enjoying one another's company, along with the music that is still coming from the computer.

"What d'you wanna do with the spare bit of garland Mr. Holmes?" Wiggins asks.

Watson gives me a watery smirk. "Is there any room left on your chemistry set Holmes?"

I bark with laughter before becoming serious. "We shall decorate the mantelpiece with it. It looks somewhat barren."

"Yes, it is missing a Persian slipper and a jackknife."

"Jackknife?" Wiggins repeats, turning to us with raised eyebrows.

Watson nods and covers his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. "Explain Holmes. Hushoosh!"

I indicate to my Irregulars the mark upon the mantel that shows the place where our correspondance would be pinned with the knife.

"What was the slipper for?" Deirdre asks.

I grimace. "Tobacco. Watson and I used to smoke rather a lot in those days."

"Hashoo! Hushoosh!" Watson groans miserably. "Excuse me. You used to smoke profusely Holmes. The rooms were often thick with tobacco smoke when I came in."

"But you don't smoke now," Tennyson reminds us.

I shrug with my hands. "We have no reason to. The regeneration process that we were both subjected to quite removed any addictions that we might have acquired in our previous lifetimes. Besides, tobacco is almost impossible to come by in this era and smoking it is illegal." I am not going to mention the cocaine or morphine and hope that they don't know about it.

"You are addicted to tea though," John notes with a small smile.

I shrug again. "Thank Providence that we still have something! Tea will rouse a weary mind, soothe a fretful one, warm a chap when he is cold and cool him when he is too hot. Where would we be without it?"

The Irregulars laugh at this.

"I shall make some more then, shall I?" he offers with a smile.

"Yes please. Do you want some Watson?"

He shakes his head and huddles further into the rugs that John has fetched for him. He looks absolutely dreadful.

"No? What about food then? You must eat!"

"If I said that, you would tell me to 'be reasonable' and that you will eat when you are hungry," he mumbles with a sniff.

John nods. "He is absolutely right you know."

Quite so, but Watson is not me. If he is not hungry he is worse than I feared. I press a hand to his forehead with concern.

"Leave me alone Holmes."

"He only wants to help Doctor Watson," Wiggins reminds him.

Deirdre nods. "We all do."

I smile at them gratefully and pat my companion's shoulder gently when he apologises. "Is there anything that we can do?"

He nods and sniffs. "Could you turn the music down a bit?"

Tennyson quickly does just that.

"D'you wanna sleep?" Wiggins asks as he and Deirdre stand up. "Here, take the couch."

I sit on the settee and persuade Watson to stretch across me so that his head is cushioned in my lap. "How is that my dear chap?"

"Comfortable. Thank you Holmes."

The Irregulars do not stay much longer. They do not want to keep Watson from his sleep and do not relish the prospect of walking home in the dark, for it was cold enough when it was daylight.

I thank the Irregulars for all their help and offer them money, which is turned down on the grounds of their being provided with nourishment. They do not argue when John announces that he shall take them home though.

"Holmes, you never cease to surprise me," Watson mumbles sleepily when we are alone. "Just when I believe that I at last have the measure of you..." he begins to cough again and I quickly lift his head and rub at his back.

"I wanted to do something for you," I respond with a shrug as I make him comfortable once more.

He smiles tiredly and all but cuddles into my lap as he attempts to settle. "I am sorry that I was angry with you."

I hush him and smile. "I understand perfectly."

He sniffs and closes his eyes. "You always do."

I position the cushions beneath Watson's head and continue to soothe him until he finally submits himself to slumber, which is rather the more difficult without my violin. I then allow the warmth of the fire and the sound of my companion's snores to lull me to sleep as well.


	21. The 21st of December

**Sunday 21st December 2104 - House Arrest**

"Would you like to come with me when I walk Pixel Holmes?" John asks when I enter the sitting room. The robot is busy tending to Watson, who is curled upon the settee with a dejected air.

"Yes I would," I respond. "Did you say that you had a treat for him?"

He smiles. "Yes. I bought him some treats specially."

After ensuring that our ill friend is well enough to be left alone (in our era, even a cold could be rather dangerous and neither of us like to leave the fellow as a result) and that he shall want for nothing we step out into the biting air.

John casts me a glance when I give a violent shiver. "Would you prefer to stay behind?"

"I am all right," I snap in response. "Really John! You are even more coddling than Watson!"

"Sorry Holmes. Come on then, get in the car. I'll drive."

I obey without another word, for I am trying to make sense of my strange reaction. It is true that Watson does fuss and that John can be even worse, but I am not in the habit of snapping like that.

When we arrive at Battersea, we make our way inside and are met by a smiling member of staff.

"Good morning Mr. Holmes. Good morning John. Are you here to walk Pixel?"

"We are indeed Vicky," John responds with a bright smile of his own. "How is he?"

She leads us in the direction of the little dog's enclosure, taking the keys from her pocket as we walk together. "He's off his food. If you could wait a bit before you take him out, he might try a mouthful before his walk."

"Is that cause for concern?" I ask her. "For a dog to stop eating, I mean. I would not want to take him out if he is unwell and requires rest."

She turns a big smile in my direction. "That's why I wanted you to give him a chance while you're here. It could just be that he's getting attached to you and your housemates and doesn't understand why he's still here. Dogs will do that. The vet can't find anything physically wrong, so he thinks he's just a bit down in the dumps."

I can certainly relate to that. "Poor old fellow. We are not due to take him for another week."

"Can you take him sooner if staying here starts to stress him out too much?"

I am sure that his presence could only do Watson good, so that does not worry me. "We could, but we have not purchased anything for him yet," I reply carefully.

"You can buy collars and leads here and any supermarket you go in 'll have dog food and toys. You might want a pet shop for bedding and that though; I'll get you a list of the ones that have been recommended by other pet rescuers."

I thank her gratefully and pull my cloak closer. It is so cold! The snow may have been cleared here, within the gates of Battersea Dogs' Home, but it is still deep elsewhere and it seems to be in no hurry to melt.

Pixel barks excitedly as we near his pen. He already recognises the sound of our footsteps. As we enter his pen, he jumps up eagerly, tail wagging, and licks my fingers by way of greeting. That is a habit that I plan to get him out of as soon as I can; not every visitor to our house is going to want to be greeted in such a manner.

As soon as we stop petting the little dog he swallows his food as if he expects it to be taken away at any moment. Vicky is pleased.

"Yep. He was pining," she remarks with a nod of her head. "Looks like we might have to re-home him earlier, if that really is OK with you."

We assure her that it is and she goes off to the office to make some arrangements while we walk our dog.

I take my handkerchief from my pocket to dab at my suddenly watering eyes, allowing John to take Pixel's lead from me.

"Are you all right Holmes?" the compudroid asks. "It is not like you to become so emotional."

"It is just the cold air."

"Yes. Of course."

There is no need for that tone! It is the truth.

As we begin our walk, I realise that I am still weary from yesterday. My head is aching and my movements feel slow and clumsy.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. How is Pixel behaving for you?"

John frowns at me. "He is a good dog, but you are changing the subject. Are you feeling all right? You are very quiet."

I permit him to link his arm through mine. At least it prevents me from falling behind as we walk together. "I am just a little tired fff... f-from... ahh... Ashoo! Atchoo!"

Both John and Pixel stop in their tracks. I am sure that that would look comical were I in a humorous mood.

"You have got a cold on the way," the robot notes. "I should have realised. Do you want to go back to the car?"

I shake my head. "I am all right. I feel fine."

He pats the arm that is linked through his. "You are weary, there is hardly any talk left in you and you are sneezing; you are clearly not 'feeling fine'. We shall have to make this walk a brief one."

"I do not like to leave Watson for long anyway."

"No, of course not. Now, when we get back to the dogs' home I would like you to sit in the car and wait for me. I am going to have to talk with Vicky and make some arrangements with her."

"Very well then John."

It is uncomfortable in the car. My legs ache, my head and nose are paining me, I am becoming thirsty and I am irritable. I suppose that it is only natural that the following morning finds me beginning to succumb to Watson's damned chill as well but I am far from pleased.

I jerk into an abrupt wakefulness to find that the robot is shaking my arm. We are home. I attempt to behave in a jovial manner as the fellow assists me in exiting the car and going indoors.

"Thank you so much for this marvelous cold Watson," I grumble the moment that I step inside the sitting room while I wipe at my annoying nose. "It is just what I needed so close to the Christmas holiday."

"I am sorry Holmes. Huh... Uh... Hushoosh!"

"Ashoo! Attishoo!" I respond in kind.

"Bless you both," John says as Watson permits me to curl up beside him on the settee. "At least you are ill now; surely it is better that you have ample time to recover before Christmas Day?"

I blow my nose and moan. "I should think that we would both prefer not to be unwell at all, if it is all the same to you."

He sighs. "Well, of course... but at least you both should have quite shrugged off the worst of the symptoms within a matter of days. If you rest, you should be quite well before Christmas."

His words are far from comforting. I had wanted to shop for gifts with Watson, John and the Irregulars and by the time that we are well, we could be cutting things rather fine. The shops of the 22nd Century tend to sell out of the best items long before Christmas Eve and I had wanted to get Watson something special. I should also buy something for Lestrade and John as a means of showing appreciation for all that they have done.

"Two days to prepare for Christmas is not exactly ample time," Watson remarks miserably, voicing my own thoughts aloud.

John crouches before us and rests a hand at one of each of our shoulders. "Well, you shall simply have to leave things to me and speed your recovery. After all, if you rest, have plenty to drink and keep warm, you should get well sooner."

I nod and cough into my handkerchief. "Point taken old chap."

He smiles and leaves us to sleep.

I groan miserably. "What excellent timing," I grumble. "We have three days before Christmas is upon us and we are both under house arrest! It is... Attishoo! It is intolerable!"

"Bless you. I am truly sorry Holmes..."

"Yes yes, I know," I respond, attempting to convey some kindness in my tone while I am still so very annoyed. "It is not your fault Watson; for us both to have contracted this miserable illness so very quickly, we must have come into contact with the microbe a day or two before we went for our walk in the snow. You know that."

He nods. "We might not be so unwell if I had had a little more sense though."

What is done is done. I shrug and rest my head upon his shoulder. "There is little point in dwelling upon what might have been. What we shall do would be a much more prudent subject matter."

"Do? Why, we shall heed John's advice and keep warm, stay quiet and speed our recovery. Uh... Hush-shoosh!"

I squeeze his arm gently. I see no point in blessing sneezes; it hardly prevents the sufferer from becoming worse. "By which time, there will most likely be a sale on and anything worth purchasing sold out. We have left our Christmas shopping rather late."

"Who told you that?" Watson demands. "I always do my shopping on Christmas Eve - that is my favourite time for buying gifts. It is always so festive! Everyone is of good cheer and the children are always so excited..."

I smile at the memory of a Victorian Christmas and then shake my head. "Times have changed old fellow. I did not buy any gifts at all last year out of protest."

Watson frowns at me reproachfully. "You always were grumpy at Christmas."

"I was not!" I cough violently and my companion quickly pours me some water. I sip it gratefully. "Thank you. I am not grumpy Watson; I simply dislike watching the gulf between the rich and the poor widening in the name of our Lord, that is all."

He frowns at me thoughtfully. "Yes, I can see why you disliked our Christmases. The poor had to save what they could all year to fund what meagre celebrations they could manage while the rich gained ever more wealth."

"It is even worse now," I inform him miserably. "The materialism of our day was nothing in comparison to the consumerism of now. It is really quite depressing."

He pats my shoulder. "That is up to the rest of the world Holmes. What man makes of man is his own affair."

"It is wrong!" I cough again and my friend rubs at my back.

"You cannot put every wrong that you encounter right Holmes. Nobody can. We need the courage to change the things that we can and the wisdom to leave those things that we cannot well alone."

I nod wearily and run a hand across my eyes. "Indeed."

He pats my arm. "As to what we should do, that is easy enough. We shall decide upon gifts to purchase and send John out for them. I am sure that he would not mind."

"What about John's gift?"

Watson points at my computer. "I am sure that we can manage to purchase one item each on the Internet."

I nod my agreement and fetch over some parchment and two writing pens. "Your suggestion is a good one."

I already have a gift in mind for my friend of old; it is the first thing to go on my list. The Irregulars are almost as easy to buy for.

"Will you be buying Lestrade a present?" my companion asks of me suddenly.

"Well yes, I think that I should. She has been very kind. Watson, do not chew your pen like that; you could get ink poisoning."

He removes the object from his mouth with a grimace. "Sorry Holmes. What were you going to get Lestrade?"

I shrug. "I have no idea."

"Perfume?"

"She would never wear it."

"Jewellery? Make up?"

"The same applies; she is rarely out of uniform."

"Flowers then?"

I turn to stare at him in disbelief. "Flowers? I do not even know whether she likes flowers!"

My companion wipes at his nose and frowns back at me. "All women like flowers Holmes."

I like flowers, but I am not a woman! "And what sort of flowers would you suggest?" Every individual has his own taste, after all. My personal favourite is a strongly scented-

"Roses," he says, almost as if he is reading my mind. He then goes further. "A dozen red roses."

I am stunned. So stunned that I start to cough again. Curse this wretched cold! "That would give her the wrong impression, surely?"

"I hardly think so. I have seen the way that you look at each other when you think that nobody else is watching. To say nothing of the way that you defend one another - verbally, non-verbally and physically - it is obvious Holmes."

It is obvious that he needs some more medicine! I have never heard anything so ridiculous. I know that Watson always hoped that I would some day find somebody to settle down with, but it did not occur to me that he might still have such hopes even now. Nor had I dreamed that he might wish it to happen so badly that he could become delusional over it.

"You do not think that she would like flowers then."

"I think that it would be an odd thing to give to a friend and colleague," I reply. That is, after all, precisely the relationship between Lestrade and myself. "Surely you would think it strange if I were to give you a dozen red roses?"

His eyebrows disappear beneath his untidy hair. "I should think that I would."

"Well then."

"What do you mean, 'well then'?" he demands.

"It is exactly the same with Lestrade. We are colleagues! We are also friends, but that is all that we are. I love Lestrade as I love you - she is like a sister to me."

He shakes his head sadly and sniffs. "I would have thought that spending wuh... wuh-one... Huh-husshch! Hushoosh! Oh. Do please excuse me."

I again squeeze his arm sympathetically and address him with a quick smile. He soon displaces that.

"I would have thought that one lonely existence would have been enough. Even for you."

He is right. Of course he is. On the other hand, what might have happened if my affection for those that I did care about was known by all and sundry? What if I had taken a wife? She would have required love, stability, security... all that I could offer was danger.

"Are you all right old fellow?"

I give him a small smile and the slightest nod.

"What do you think Lestrade would like?" he asks then.

"Something practical, useful," I respond. "She works herself even harder than I do."

He shakes his head. "Then I shall buy her something to enjoy. We all need some fun Holmes."

Indeed we do. "Lestrade likes films and music. John might have a good idea regarding her taste and what to get her; he is, after all, her compudroid."

I fold my list in half, write a note for John on it, and place it beside me on the coffee table. I leave my credit card atop it. "I am sleepy," I then inform my companion in little more than a drowsy mumble. "Leave your list and card with m-mine... Uh... Ah... Attishoo! Ashoo! Eeeeishoo! Damn! Leave your list with mine when you are finished; John will see them when he checks on us."

"Bless you Holmes," he says quietly. "Lie across me; it might ease your breathing."

I heed his advice with a grateful sigh. I am so tired that I almost forget to cover my wretched nose before I surrender to Morpheus. As I drift off, I am aware of the sound of Watson's pen scratching at his parchment while the fire crackles in the grate before us; both are reassuringly familiar sounds and I relax gratefully. I hope that my companion will remember to rest as well.


	22. The 22nd of December

**Monday 22nd December 2104 - wrapping**

I am bored. Terribly so! There is not very much that a fellow can do when he is being imprisoned by a bossy and over-protective robot.

John, naturally, is annoyingly cheerful. He seems to be enjoying his task of caring for Watson and I.

My poor friend has been dosed with those foul paracetamol drinks that are supposed to taste of blackcurrant but in actual fact taste like nothing that a fellow would ever willingly swallow; I can only describe the flavour as being 'purple', for it is dreadfully artificial. He has also been given a cough suppressant that does not contain paracetamol, which John found specifically in order to be able to give him both without fear of overdose.

In comparison with my unfortunate companion I have been practically ignored, which of course suits me perfectly. I do not have Watson's dreadful cough, so I have not been subjected to any of those vile drinks or the sickly-sweet medicine. Instead, I have been given only paracetamol pills and hot honeyed water. I suppose I should count my blessings.

"Bless you Holmes! Here, have some more to drink; it will do you good."

I am rather bored of honeyed water as well. Why can I not have tea? I address him with the best glare that can be achieved with streaming eyes and nose. "I would like some tea. Please."

The irksome compudroid shakes his head. "Honey is much better for you, you know; it soothes the throat and is much better than caffeine, milk and sugar. Sugar will only give the bacteria in your throat something to hold on to in order to make the soreness worse and it has been proven that dairy products can cause mucus to worsen. Add to that the matter of caffeine dehydrating a fellow..."

"Oh, very well John; I give up! I submit. Do to me as you damn well please, only do kindly refrain from talking me to death."

He gazes back at me with a hurt expression. "Well, you are certainly in a chipper mood Holmes..."

"I am bored! What the deuce do you expect?"

If there is one thing worse than illness, it is illness coupled with boredom. If I had something else to focus on, this miserable cold would be a mere annoyance that would simply fade into the background.

Watson groans and slips his arm about me. He feels hot, but both he and John believe that that is most likely due to all the coughing that he has been doing. At least John has managed to subdue it with cough suppressant for the moment.

"Holmes," the fellow whispers, "please try to calm yourself. Perhaps you shall feel better after a siesta?"

"No thank you. I have had ample sleep; there is nothing else that John will allow me to do."

John huffs and leaves the room with a bang of the door. Ow! I feel my companion of old flinch slightly beside me and instantly know that the loud noise hurt his head as much as it did mine.

"The fellow has only our best interests at heart," Watson reminds me quietly as he rests his hot head at my shoulder.

I know. "I shall apologise later."

"You know Holmes, it would be much better if you would just control your temper; you would not have to apologise at all then."

I groan and rub at my aching head. "I am just so terribly bored..."

"Here," John has returned absolutely laden with bags and sets them down on the dining table. "Do some wrapping. Do not worry; I had your gifts for one another wrapped in the shops from which I purchased them and they are already under the tree."

Watson smiles at our friend. "John, you are a marvel. Thank you. Come along Holmes, this should keep you occupied for a moment or two."

I have never wrapped presents before. In my own era, a gentleman would ask the salesman to do that for but a small fee. If he were unable to afford the extra expense, which I sometimes was when well-paid cases were few, there was always the housekeeper to do it for him. Well, I have achieved rather more difficult things, I am sure. In any case, does anyone really look at the wrapping (aside from me)?

"Mrs. Hudson spoilt you," my companion of old remarks as he attempts to show me how to wrap a box. "Mary always insisted that we should do our own wrapping. She said that it was much more festive."

"Pooh! You spent rather more Christmases with Mrs. Hudson and I than you did with Mary," I remind him.

He shrugs. "All the same, I know how a gift should be wrapped. Do you?"

I snort, blow my wretched nose and drum my fingers upon the tabletop. "It is not a thing that a gentleman should have any reason to learn. Not in our era, anyway."

"Well, let me show you. First, we have to measure the quantity of paper that we... Where are you going?"

I have just stood to leave the table. I frown at the fellow. "To find a yard stick, naturally." I should also take the opportunity to make use of the washroom, for there are a lot of gifts to wrap on the table and I am already becoming uncomfortable.

"There is no need for a yard stick! All you have to do is to sit the present that you wish to wrap on the paper like this and to then wind the paper about it like this. There. It overlaps here, so if we cut it there we shall have ample paper to wrap this box with. Who is this for, anyway? Ah! Wiggins. Right, we shall need a label as well. Would you like to write them out? Your writing is neater than mine."

And thus the lesson begins. He shows me how to fold the ends into neat flaps, how best to wrap the rather more difficult shapes and so on. He is very patient. At first.

"What the deuce are you doing now Holmes? No! You should measure the paper before you cut it. How many times must I remind you?"

"I can measure by eye thank you Watson."

He takes the scissors from me. "When you are well, perhaps. Today it is remarkable that you can cut in a passably straight line."

"You do it then if you are suhh... Uh-atchoo! Attishoo! If you are so much more capable. I shall just watch and learn."

"Bless you. I did not mean that old fellow. I only wish that you would be more careful; you have already wasted paper by cutting it too small."

"I haven't wasted it," I snap. "There are smaller items that they will fit. Can I have the scissors back? Please? I am faster than you are."

He frowns at me. "And what is the rush? Once we run out of presents we shall have nothing left to do and you will go back to bemoaning your boredom."

That is true. "Then if you would prefer that we take our time, would you excuse me for a moment?" I am sure that I can wait for much longer than my irksome body is suggesting, but I do not intend to put it to the test (after all, I may be in a young and strong body now, but I have not grown into it; the condition that I was in before I died was old, weak and tired from years of abusing 'the appendix of my brain'. It is difficult now to trust my body - even when it is healthy - to behave itself).

Watson's frown deepens. "Oh, is that what is wrong with you? Well, go on then for God's sake; you know where the washroom is and hardly need my permission!"

I was not asking his permission! I stand swiftly in my annoyance, causing my head to swim ever so slightly. Damned illness! I am tired of it already. I can hear my companion quietly grumbling to himself about my attitude toward myself having changed not a jot behind me as I leave him. Pah!

I return to the table to find a cursing Watson attempting to peel some tape from the tabletop without damaging the varnish.

I conceal a smirk as I resume my seat. "Why are you attaching parcels to our table old chap?"

"I did not mean to. This damned tape has a mind of its own!"

I should not have irritated him, for the coughing begins anew.

"Forgive me Watson. Allow me; you should probably go and get a drink of water."

"Humph! Thank you Holmes. Do you want anything?"

I shake my head. I have had enough honey and water to sink a steamship.

"Well, if you are quite sure."

I hear Watson step out onto the landing but he gets no further.

"Stay in the sitting room!" John's voice orders from the kitchen. "I shall be up now with soup."

Ah yes; I had forgotten that we had been told to remain in the warm confines of the sitting room. Does the compudroid not understand how difficult it is for men like myself and Watson to remain confined indoors?

My companion returns to the dining table with a weary sigh and resumes his seat. "I am sure that I was never so bossy."

"If you were I certainly do not remember it," I respond. "I imagine that that is a trait that he has learnt from Lestrade."

His eyes meet mine at the mention of her name. "While we are on the subject of the inspector Holmes... What did you buy for her?"

I sniff and avert my gaze. "I am not telling."

"I am hardly going to tell her!"

"I should think not indeed! No, you can find out when she opens it; I have taken the liberty of asking her to partake of Christmas dinner with us this Christmas Eve and we have also been invited to join her on Christmas Day. It would seem that presents are opened on Christmas morning these days."

He raises his eyebrows. "Why is that?"

How the deuce should I know that? I shrug. "I am not sure Watson. I am sure that I would be happy to wait until Christmas morning if you would prefer it though; it would make very little difference to me."

"I think that I should like to see Lestrade open her presents from us while we are here," he says.

That settles it then.

After our lunch of home-made soup and freshly-baked bread, we move our wrapping back onto the dining table and resume our work of earlier. Watson seems to be a little happier now that he has had some nourishment.

Most of the remaining presents are easy to wrap. CDs, DVDs, one or two boxed items... The final two are the most difficult, however.

The first is in a carrier bag from a rather specialist shop and is big and floppy. I know exactly what it is without unpacking it for this is one of my presents. It seemed like a good idea when I did not know that I would be wrapping it myself.

The second is a gift for Wiggins from Watson. The packaging informs me that it is a new Brixton scarf. As it is smaller, we wrap that one first. It is deucedly difficult, being so soft, but we do finally succeed in securing the creased paper in place.

The other, larger package has me cursing within moments. It is like trying to wrap a liquid! It moves and changes shape under a fellow's hands in the most maddening manner!

"Damn! Damn and blast! Watson, this thing is alive! Hold this demon still, I beg of you, while I attempt to wrap the fiend. Oh! How is one supposed to wrap like this?"

My assistant giftwrapper begins to laugh at me. "Calm yourself Holmes. Here, let me do it. Now, if we fold it in half like this..."

"It will then not fit in the damned paper."

"Temper temper old fellow. I am sure that it will fit."

I watch quietly as the fellow carefully pulls the paper about the item. He is right; it matters not at all that he has folded it in half.

"Could you please stop sulking and tape the parcel for me while I hold it in place?"

"I am not sulking. I am feeling unwell." I tear some tape from the dispenser with rather more violence than usual before doing as I am asked. I remind myself to be neat as this gift is mine.

It is with relief that we pile the many presents beneath the tree. Without another word I then collapse into my armchair and stretch my feet out before the fire to warm them. My eyes begin to close of their own accord, for the wrapping would seem to have depleted my energy, and I feel someone swathe me in a thick rug. I mumble my thanks before Morpheus snatches me into his waiting arms.


End file.
